


Unbound

by Morwen_Eledhwen



Series: As We Are Called [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adherence to Gameplay, Adventure, And then a bit of slaying and saving the world, BAMF!Wardens, Drama, F/M, Gen, It's more original than you'd think, Lashings of snark and some deep conversations, Part 1 of a 3-part series, UST, With some creative license
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Eledhwen/pseuds/Morwen_Eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young phenomenon from the Circle of Magi struggles to fulfill her destiny and save Ferelden from the Blight, with her old nemesis as her closest advisor. Meanwhile, a hero of legend finds himself at the mercy of a young upstart and is forced into her motley band of misfits as the Final Battle approaches. Drama, adventure and snark ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Duel

_Your moment has come. . .are you ready?_

There had been a moment, in the Tower of Ishal, when the beacon had sputtered into life and her heart had sparked with it. It was a new spell for her, but she had summoned a steady flame from her staff as Alistair broke chairs and crates and hacked at beams for more wood to fuel the signal; and then the moment came when they knew that they had done it, and they rushed to the tower window to witness what they had set in motion. They leaned out over the windowsill like children playing at castle forts or "rescue the princess" –only the king was the one in trouble and _they_ were doing the rescuing. They grinned at each other, giddy with their success; Alistair actually managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds before being obliged to turn away. He twisted himself around on the sill to check the strength and visibility of the signal they had made, but the young Mage knew that her flame would burn well. She was checking the ground below.

The flames from the beacon, and from the battlefield in the valley under the bridge, made echoes of themselves in the marks, the color and temperature of sunset in winter, that she'd set in the skin of her face. They buried themselves in the russet mask between brow and cheekbone, made embers of her lips -carefully painted the same color—and sent smoldering tracers down her cheeks and up her temples until her face looked like a flaming ivory skull with enormous topaz eyes. She was well aware of how she looked, and didn't blame Alistair in the least for his discomfiture. It was a tribute to his good nature and their high spirits that he was able to withstand that grin for as long as he did.

Nothing had yet changed on the battlefield. The fires scattered across the valley marked where the Grey Warden army was engaging the Darkspawn horde that had come streaming in to Ostagar from the Korcari Wilds. Some of the fires were orderly –rings of soldiers wielding flaming brands, archers with fire-tipped arrows forming a defensive line and sending regular volleys into the ranks of the enemy at a single order. But there were other fires, too –trees on the perimeter set wildly ablaze as well as armor, weapons and warriors from both sides, friend and foe. These flames went up randomly about the battlefield, sending the ordered elements into chaos and setting off smaller fires of their own. Even from her vantage point she could see that the banks of ordered lights were being eroded like a dam in a storm-swollen river; without additional support, the dam would break and the field would be lost to the flood.

That additional support was what their recent efforts in the Tower were all about. The army in the valley comprised only a part of the force assembled at Ostagar against the Darkspawn. Waiting in the shadows was yet another army, not the Grey Wardens but the regular Fereldan legions, commanded by none other than Loghain Mac Tir, master campaigner and hero of the already-legendary rebellion against the Orlesian occupation that had ended some thirty years ago. The Mage had spoken and listened to a few of these soldiers and found them much like their general -grim, war-hardened, and dedicated to their land and their king. The King was not with them, however. He had insisted on fighting with the Grey Wardens in the vanguard. The Mage had seen the battle plans laid out in camp; the King himself had explained it to her. The Wardens would draw the Darkspawn horde in from the forest and engage them in the valley; when the last of the creatures had passed the chokepoint, the beacon in the Tower of Ishal would be lit and the regular army would move in to close the gap. The enemy would be driven between the points of the pincer and crushed. The map on the table had shown it plainly: a golden arc on one side of the battlefield, representing the King and the Grey Wardens, and a line of silver leading from the woods to the other side. The beacon would set that line in motion.

Except nothing was happening –no war cries went up, no shadows doused the flames, no steel support arrived to bolster the dam and stem the tide. Only more Darkspawn entered the field from the opposite end –more and more Darkspawn, an endless wave of them. Had she and Alistair lit the beacon too soon? But the army in the valley was foundering; even if there were still Darkspawn in the woods, help had to come for the Grey Wardens soon, or all the regular army would find when they reached the battlefield was a burst trap and the enemy streaming for the Tower.

Still she watched and waited, her gaze straining into the darkness, willing that silver line to hit its mark. But the army never came. As she watched, the hordes of the enemy swirled over the battlefield, their fires dissolving the last of the golden line, until finally they breached the rearmost defenses and began to climb the ridge on the other side. The Mage and Alistair turned to stare at each other as a slow paralyzing shock hit them: the enemy was about to swarm the Tower, and they were perhaps the only two of their kind left standing in all of Ostagar. Without a word they dropped from the windowsill and faced the chamber, eyes and ears transfixed on the door opposite. Already they could hear the pounding of armored feet below; a moment later, a deep-throated chuckle echoed off the stone walls of the lower floors. The Darkspawn were inside the Tower; the Wardens' tainted blood would draw their enemies to them no matter where they tried to hide. The pounding feet mingled with the thrumming of the beacon fires and the beating of the Fade inside the Mage's head. The Fade was calling to her; as she struggled with the temptation to yield, a shadow blotted out the light from the Tower window. Some monstrous creature shrieked, the flames from the signal fire fanned into the chamber with the beating of its wings, the Mage heard a rushing in her head as the entire scene seemed to fold in on itself until it formed a pinpoint just between her eyes, and then with a pop, it vanished. There was an instant of blackness, and then a stream of light enveloped her, rendering her senseless for a time, until she learned to endure it and navigate its courses. She followed the stream to its ending -or its source, she could not tell which—and found herself lying in bed, in a hut in the Korcari Wilds, being tended by the daughter of the Witch who had come through the Tower window in the form of a great bird and had carried her and Alistair to safety. It was here, as she was still re-learning the feel of bedclothes and what it was like to have an up and a down, and recalling the pulse in her body, that the young Mage learned what had happened: that the Fereldan army had failed to come to the King's aid not because they had been destroyed by the Darkspawn, but because they had never advanced. At some point, beacon or no beacon, they had simply abandoned the field. Those in the valley had been slaughtered –the King, his attendants, and every last Grey Warden in Ferelden. Well. . .all but two, of course.

* * *

_I am ready._

The memory of that awakening moment, of shaking off the Fade to face with clarity the first cold morning of a new life, came to her these many months later, as she stepped into the gaze of her adversary. Sight and sound drew to a focal point just in front of where he stood in the Landsmeet chamber, and as she was drawn toward the spot she felt the world recede into static around her, heard the voices of foes, allies and neutral parties alike diffuse into the same milky babble –and suddenly, all were extinguished. She stood alone with him on the vanishing point, a cool flame against a thundercloud, and their eyes pierced each other.

"Prepare yourself," he snarled.

He was the one who had turned away –who had led that silver line away from the battlefield at Ostagar instead of toward it. Instead, his army had skirted the main body of the horde, cut their way through the Wilds and marched on Denerim, calling out death for the Grey Wardens as they went. The Wardens were blamed for leading King Cailan to his death at the hands of the Darkspawn; and from that moment to this, the Mage, Alistair and their growing band of companions had been hunted by assassins, betrayed and sold by mercenaries and desperate commoners, trapped by deceits and vilified in word and in print in nearly every corner of Ferelden. It was only because the General's heavy hand had also come down on his own banns, in the interest of securing their allegiance to the Regency he had claimed for himself after Cailan's death, that the Mage now stood where she was. The ruthlessness with which he and his confederates had bullied them into submission –and punished those who resisted—had engendered resentment amongst the Fereldan nobles and dismay amongst some of his staunchest supporters. The Wardens had used all the leverage they could find to push the support of the Landsmeet against the Regent, and their efforts had been successful. His banns had deserted him, his own daughter had renounced him and he was now in a fight for not only his Regency, but his life, with the Mage standing for the Wardens and the Queen. As they faced off for the duel, the Mage was not surprised at the malevolence of his glare, and would not let it shake her. But there was something else in his countenance and his stance for which she was not prepared. It was like a light on the horizon which one mistakes for a distant town or a sunrise, until it leaps forward and reveals itself as one of the raging summer fires that sometimes swept across the Fereldan plains. Looking at his face she could almost see the approaching wall of flame; the air around him seemed to crackle. The Regent was gone, and in his place stood the Champion. He began to circle her, like a great cat even in his heavy armor, and like a cat she could see him preparing for the spring. The Mage's heart became a trapped bird in her chest; the song of the Fade in her ears took on a high, shrill note that she rarely heard and recognized mostly from seeing its effects on those who had faced her: fear. The Champion was clearly no stranger himself to seeing that look in an opponent's face. One black eyebrow arched at the corner, and as he continued to pace he inclined his head toward her with an ironic little smile. _You wanted this, Warden_ , the smile said. _Come and get it_.

She had been circling opposite him, maintaining her distance and trying to keep him in front as her fear threatened to choke her, but when he smiled she stopped, shrugged her shoulders, exhaled impatiently and regarded him as if to say, _Well_? He stopped then, too, and the eyebrows flickered again, but the nod this time was one of approval. She felt as if she had passed a test, by not allowing herself to be hypnotized by his predatory little dance. Fine. But now the pleasantries were over. A flash and his sword was drawn; a shrug of his shoulder and the crest of Gwaren snarled at her from the facing of his shield. She took a breath and gripped her staff. The signal was given, and the duel began.

"He'll charge at you straight off and try to knock you down," was pretty much the first thing anyone said when the Wardens had asked for advice on combat against Loghain Mac Tir. "Most of the time he'll succeed, too." Eamon's knights had the most to say on the subject, having either fought alongside him or known those who had. "The Charge of the Hero of River Dane" sounded like the name of a legendary battle of which Leliana would sing on one of her intrigues in some court, but it was simply the fighting style of one man, though it had gained legendary status. Arguments broke out, drinks, gold, equipment and other commodities were wagered on how many fully armored men he could land on their backs in a single rush, and whether or not he had actually managed to dislodge a chevalier from his horse while he, Loghain, was on foot. (One red-nosed campaigner insisted that this was true -that Loghain had lost his own horse and sword and the chevalier, eager to claim him as his prize, had spurred his mount towards him. The force with which Loghain met this charge stopped the horse up short and the chevalier was thrown over its head; while he was still trying to disentangle himself from the reins, Loghain's shield had crushed his skull.) Certainly all were agreed that the less-flexible massive armor of the Orlesian army and their tendency to fight in closed ranks had given them no advantage against him. He had cut them down like a scythe.

The Mage could never hope to withstand the Champion's charge. Her first objective, therefore, was not to let it happen. As soon as the signal dropped she saw him crouch, and felt the fear sing again in her blood. All of her power she now sent into a Paralyzing spell; as it left her staff she prayed to the Maker that it would reach him in time to stop the charge, that it would be strong enough to hold him. It did both. Loghain Mac Tir was now a statue of himself in his most fearsome aspect. The young Mage could not guess how long the spell would hold, and she had spent so much of her energy on it that it would be a while before she could cast that particular spell again, but the first round of battle had gone to her, and that was all she needed. Now that she had time to work, she had other ways to contain him.

Those who witnessed the duel said it took almost no time at all –a matter of seconds, perhaps a minute at most. For her, though, those seconds encompassed a lifetime of thought –the end of one path through the Fade, the beginning of another. She could see the Fade clearly now, more clearly than the Landsmeet chamber in which she knew she still stood. He was there, too, both in the chamber and in the Fade with her, a stark shadow frozen on the path in front of her. Quickly she cast a hex on him that would make him more vulnerable to elemental spells; then she fired two rounds of lightning and an Arcane Bolt in rapid succession. Already she could see him beginning to stir from the Paralyzing spell. His jaw clenched; the knuckles on the hand that gripped his sword turned white with the searing fury in his eyes. She had to act; if she waited for her spells to recharge he would be free, and he would be on her like a gale. She met his eyes with hers, fixing his gaze on the frightful mask of her face, and sent him the Waking Nightmare.

In the Landsmeet chamber his body froze once again, this time by a horror unseen to anyone but himself. Now he inhabited his own part of the Fade where, as in dreams, he could pass a separate lifetime before awakening. It occurred to her for the first time to wonder where exactly the victims of the Waking Nightmare spell went. Surely it was different for the mindless Darkspawn and other monsters on which she had cast it. But what of a living person? What of this man? Where had she sent him; what twisted landscapes or nightmarish corridors did _he_ wander? Was the broken body of Cailan even now staggering towards him, his bloody mouth spouting accusations of treachery? Whatever he was experiencing, before he would be allowed to escape, she would now make it even worse. Swiftly she transformed into a great black bear, using the shapeshifting technique that Morrigan had taught her in one of her more indulgent moods at camp. The effect was startling and impressive enough to those awake and present in the Landsmeet chamber; she could only imagine what Loghain saw. Perhaps his vision was suddenly obscured by a dreadful shadow, and then filled with a bellowing, monstrous beast with saw blades for teeth, claws to rend the soul from the body and eyes that reflected the madness of the Black City beyond. She raised herself up on her hind legs in the threatening bear stance and he staggered back, screaming; one thudding blow to the head and he was down.

There was not much left to be done. She felt reluctant to finish the duel in bear shape, however –it was never really her style and she rarely used the skill except for effect, as now. Undoing the transformation, she looked at him once more with her own eyes and felt a sick jolt behind her sternum that forced her to hesitate, catching her breath. She should finish him off like this, now, while he still groveled out of his mind on the floor. That would leave no one in any doubt. After all, it was what she had set out to do –make an example of him in front of the assembled nobility of Ferelden and toss his broken spirit into the Fade forever. He was very close now. Still, she hesitated. His face was turned away from hers, his ragged breath came in gulps that sounded almost like sobbing. Again she felt the hitch in her chest and thought that she might be sick. Despite her intentions, despite all the promises she had made to Alistair and herself about what she should do if she ever came face to face with Loghain Mac Tir, she was forced to admit that she found no satisfaction in what she was doing to this man. Just as she had found herself unable to kill the proud Werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, and had instead joined them in defending themselves and their home against the Dalish mage, so now she hesitated to end the life of this champion. When Ostagar was lost, he had gathered up his forces and tried to rally the entire country to him as though all of Ferelden was his army. When the Grey Wardens threatened his efforts he had used every available resource to wipe them out. When the Landsmeet turned against him, he had railed at their cowardice, their susceptibility, and their lack of respect. His entire life -family, household, status, his profession as even so much as a common soldier, let alone a commander of armies- had been swept away by the Landsmeet in a matter of minutes. Others the Mage had encountered in their travels had met with similar (or lesser) misfortunes and had responded with groveling, wheedling, temper tantrums, bad promises, crooked deals, murder. This man had stood, enraged and saddened but unshaken from his foundations, defying his adversaries but still consenting to play by their rules; and so he had been led to this duel, and now the Mage held his life in her hands. Misguided and mistaken he may have been, and even perhaps a bit mad, but the spirit within him was unlike any she had ever encountered. Could she simply snuff it out?

As she crouched over him, hesitating, she saw the trembling of his hands and shoulders subside. At first she thought that the life was leaving his body, and that he would never return from that corner of the Fade into which the Waking Nightmare spell had rocked him. _Oh, Maker_ , she thought. _Forgive me_. . .But then she saw the hands brace themselves against the flagstones; his head rose, shook itself once, and then turned to her once again. The eyes were cool, the shadows under them like livid bruises, but the Mage knew that they were his own, that he saw her now as she was. Her chest lightened and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She felt an inexplicable urge to burst out laughing but clamped that down. And then she saw that his right hand was slowly reaching for his sword that he had dropped earlier in his terror. If he grasped it where it lay, one quick jab would lodge the blade in her throat. Fascinated, she watched the hand touch the hilt and start to close around it; then as his eyes narrowed and his body started to tense she blinked and shook herself awake. Time to end this.

She would not kill him; she knew that now. Leaping to her feet, she raised her staff and, calculating just the amount of force required to drive him back down, sent a single bolt in his direction. When he had recovered and once again raised his eyes to hers, she was standing with a hand on her hip and a look on her face that said she could do this all day if he wanted. His shoulders slumped; he shook his head. The sword clanged as it hit the floor. Slowly he raised himself to his feet, palms outward in the attitude of surrender.

He hadn't touched her.


	2. The Mage/The Landsmeet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Disclaimer: This chapter contains dialogue lifted from the post-Landsmeet scene in Dragon Age: Origins_.

Not that there were many living who had, after all.

Occasionally in their travels, the Mage and her companions had been ambushed by stealthed Rogues or overwhelmed by enemies too great in number to contain. Some of these had actually gotten close enough to pierce the Mage's defense spells and inflict damage on her with their weapons, if not actually to touch her. None had survived the contact for long. Outside of combat, the Mage projected an untouchable aura even amongst those who counted themselves as her allies or even her friends. Her companions could be jostled in crowds or pushed deliberately by thugs looking to start a fight; _their_ hands could be shaken or shoulders clapped by thankful villagers or patrons in Tapster's Tavern -but only words were directed at the Mage, and those at a respectful distance. She knew the reason for it: they were afraid of her. The duel with Loghain was not the first occasion that she had used fear as a weapon. She was well aware –as was he, and had attempted to use his own terrible aspect and fearsome reputation to cow her even before the contest began—the advantage in battle that is gained if one's enemy is terrified. Her own legend, though not of as long a duration as Mac Tir's, had spread throughout Ferelden and had already begun to work on her behalf.

If recognized and addressed as such, she had never denied that she was a Grey Warden; however, because of her outlaw status, she had tried to travel incognito as much as possible as she and her companions went about their task of gathering an army to replace the one that was lost. Nearly everyone outside the Circle to whom she had given her name had died at Ostagar, and she had revealed her origin and purpose only when necessary. In addition, several of her companions had as good reason as she to prefer anonymity, so no other name was put forward as a figurehead for the party. However, the exploits of her band of outlaws over the past few months had been passed around and discussed, enlarged and embellished, in taverns and village squares, fields and hills and caves and hovels in every corner of the map. Even without knowing her name, Ferelden knew her.

Those who did not know her as the Grey Warden had invented their own names for the pale Mage with the red tattoos on her face who was clearly the leader of this nameless band. Zevran had developed a habit of sneaking out of camp at night and, cloaked in Stealth, insinuating himself amongst the locals to hear fresh tales of himself and his friends. He took particular pleasure in relaying any new titles the Mage may have acquired. In the hills, he found, she was known as the Daughter of the Storm; in the plains and farmlands, the Sickle of the Moon; amongst the Dwarves, she was the Diamond Warrior, or the Death Mask; amongst the Elves, she was the Lightning Spear, or more recently Fen'Harel's Child. The Qunari that could occasionally be found in Ferelden –mercenaries, most of them—had evidently heard Sten call her his _kadan_ , as they had named her the Warrior's Heart, and seemed reluctant to attempt to kill a human who had earned such respect from one of their own. In Denerim and larger towns such as Redcliffe, however, she was simply the White Demon.

Even the Darkspawn seemed to know her. Of course, the sight (and smell) of a Grey Warden always excited an especially aggressive response, compared to that of their untainted enemies. Over time, however, the Darkspawn's reaction to the Mage in particular grew more and more frenzied, until simply her appearance on the horizon, and the stab of light from her upraised staff that preceded the casting of her first spell, was enough to cause a riot amongst the hordes. The Alphas and Emissaries, and the Shrieks and Ogres of all ranks, forgot everything else and beat a path to take her down -which was often their demise, as her companions were free to hack away at them unchecked. The grunts and lower-ranked Genlocks and Hurlocks, on the other hand, were thrown into a panic and ran screeching in mindless circles until they were hunted down by the Wardens' party or trampled by the stronger of their own kind. They did not seem to have a language the way she and her companions understood it, nor were they known to write or draw or leave any record of that nature; somehow, though, the legend -the warning- was being passed: Beware the lightning that strikes underground, that flashes from the hillside instead of the sky. That's _her_ , the one that kills us, the one that drives us mad, the one that finds us in our deepest lairs where none but we have dared to pass. You'll know her when you see her: First the flash, then the terror, then the storm.

* * *

No stranger to legend and rumor and the varying degrees of truth that these can represent, Loghain Mac Tir had been less than terrified at the prospect of facing the Mage in battle. Nor had he been intimidated by her somewhat unearthly appearance –the pale, almost translucent skin of her face and her bare arms; the huge baleful aquamarine eyes set in a bloody mask of facial tattoos and cosmetic paint; the unsmiling mouth taking its cue from the stark red cap of hair that she kept shorn as close as a penitent novice's in some particularly ascetic cloister. Most people found this combination in her appearance of the childlike, the wise, the sacred, and the demonic extremely unnerving, especially in a Mage. The Hero of River Dane obviously knew a good costume when he saw one, and had waited to see this Mage's performance before he formed an opinion. His expression as he rose to his feet before her in the Landsmeet chamber was now not merely one of respect. He seemed actually to be satisfied, even relieved, that she who now had him at her mercy had proven herself worthy of such an honor.

"I yield," he said.

As she had before the duel began, the Mage once again felt the piercing intelligence of his gaze, but the eyes had lost their scalding contempt. She was relieved as well, and not just for having prevailed in the contest. Thank the Maker, she thought, he would not have to die. In accepting his defeat at her hands, the Hero of River Dane freely offered up to her his life; with a nod, the Grey Warden gratefully gave it back.

Noise and confusion erupted from outside the place where they stood. The Mage's focus began to reopen and her senses to register her full surroundings again. She became aware of footsteps approaching her from behind, and a man's voice shouting.

". . .going to let him live? After everything he's done? _Kill_ him, already!"

It was Alistair. He had charged into the middle of the chamber and was now poised between the Mage and Loghain, his hand on the hilt of his sword. She now fully recalled where she was and the context of what had just happened. She had accomplished her mission and triumphed in the Landsmeet. The Regent of Ferelden, along with the Queen, the Banns, and the rest of the assembly, awaited her judgment. Though she knew she could not kill Loghain Mac Tir, Alistair's seething incredulity brought home the question for which she had never prepared an answer: If she would not kill him, what in Ferelden was she going to do with him?

"Wait. There is another option."

The Orlesian Warden, Riordan, had quietly insinuated himself between the Mage and Loghain on the other side, opposite Alistair. Loghain, no doubt reacting to the man's accent as well as his words, spared Riordan a sideways glance and a single scowling eyebrow before facing forward again. Riordan had been waylaid by the teyrn's men and imprisoned in Arl Howe's Denerim estate, until the Mage and her companions had set him free. The Mage was sure that Loghain knew of Riordan's existence and his identity, but wondered if they had ever actually met. Riordan certainly did not seem to regard the former Regent with any particular hostility. If anything, his words were calm, even soothing, as though Alistair was a half-wild Mabari bent on mauling a guest in the Landsmeet chamber. Alistair's brows also twisted at Riordan's interruption, but he stayed the hand on his sword-hilt and waited.

Riordan nodded to Alistair, then turned to the victor of the contest. "The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown. Let him be of use," he said. "Let him go through the Joining."

In her shock, the Mage turned her gaze from Loghain's and did something she realized she hadn't done in what seemed like several hours: she blinked.

Riordan smiled at her. She was struck again by how calm he always seemed, as though imprisonment, torture, public dueling and civil war were all part of a normal day in politics. Then again, from what she had heard of Orlesian politics, that may be the case as far as he was concerned. Orlesians were also supposed to be experts at hiding their true feelings and intentions under a mask of politeness. Could there be something behind Riordan's smooth and reasonable tones?

"You want to make him a Warden?" The Mage wished that she had brought her own Orlesian, Leliana, with her; or even Zevran would be better than she at detecting deceit beneath that placid countenance. There was nothing for it, though, but to ask a direct question and hope for a direct answer. "Why?"

"There are three of us in all of Fereldan. And there are. . .compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon."

Before she could try to decipher the possible meaning of _compelling reasons_ , the Mage and Riordan were interrupted by Queen Anora, who now stepped directly between the still-glaring Alistair and Loghain. "The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?" she queried. Delicate pale hands constantly shaping, folding the space in front of her. "If he survives, you gain a general; if not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?"

The beaten Champion, his life forfeit, never once looked at his daughter, his Queen. Anora, for her part, addressed the Grey Wardens with one smooth shoulder blade turned toward her father. The Mage, regarding them both, felt a chill at the back of her neck. How much of Anora's detachment was due to her father's recent behavior, and how much of it was just Anora? Had Loghain Mac Tir deliberately raised such a daughter? Did he even now approve of the way Anora calculated his fate into her concerns? _She_ is _Ferelden's queen_ , thought the Warden. _Anyone who actually believed that Cailan ruled this country was a fool_.

In regards to Riordan's proposal, of course, Anora had a point. Loghain Mac Tir was not just a general, but a highly successful and respected general with decades of experience. The Mage and Alistair had never even been soldiers. Yet, they were attempting to raise an army against the Archdemon that she was expected to command. She may have gotten the hang of managing a band of outlaws -though with one outlaw already having deserted her, even that presumption was debatable- but the Mage had seen just enough of military life to know how little she understood of it. She would feel more confident, she thought, for having a competent advisor. There was a possibility, of course, that Loghain might try to command rather than advise -but after all, he had taken orders from Cailan when Cailan would not take his general's advice, and Loghain had clearly thought little of Cailan's choices at Ostagar. If he tried to kill the Wardens or their companions, he would die. Even if he were to succeed and kill them all, what would he do then? The Queen and all the nobles of Ferelden would have renounced him and handed him over to the Wardens; if he came back to Denerim without them, his life would be forfeit again. He would have accomplished nothing other than to take away Ferelden's last remaining hope. Would Loghain let personal desire for revenge ruin his country's chances of ending the Blight? The Mage thought not.

Speaking of revenge, however: If Loghain was forced to join the "secret club" for which he had such contempt, and to take orders from that club's two most junior members after having failed for the final time to harm them in any way, he might well consider that a far crueler punishment than death. Surely Alistair, if he must see Loghain further punished, could be made to see this. He could be satisfied, and the Champion would not have to die. Once Loghain had joined their company and proved himself, Alistair would calm down. It had happened already when they spared Zevran's life and accepted his assistance; or when they freed the Qunari and the Golem, both murderers, and invited them into their company; or when they welcomed the apostate Witch and her questionable practices. Each time, Alistair had objected, but reason had prevailed. As far as the Mage was concerned, Riordan's solution was a brilliant one. She thanked the Maker that a more experienced Warden had been sent to her, as neither she nor Alistair knew exactly how to perform a Joining. Though where the Darkspawn blood was to come from, she could only guess; the Mage had been around a lot of it lately but had not exactly been collecting the stuff. Still, these were mere details. She cocked a conspiratorial eye at Alistair. They both knew this game by now; he would protest, but then do as he was told.

"Absolutely not!" Alistair waved off both Riordan and the Mage, fuming. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers, and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals! He tortured you!" Loghain looked blandly at Alistair and then faced forward again. Alistair's voice was rising in his rage and frustration. "How could we simply forget that?" he pleaded.

"Riordan has a point," argued the Mage. "We should put him through the Joining."

"Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment! Name him as a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother! I won't!"

The Mage remembered Daveth, the petty thief who had cut Duncan's purse in Denerim and been conscripted into the Grey Wardens as "punishment". She also recalled how she herself came to join the Wardens, and some of the things she had had to do since. She shook her head sadly. "Not all of us have spotless honor, you know," she said. _Think of us, Alistair_ , she thought. _Think of what we are -of all the people we killed or robbed or bullied, just because they had something we wanted or stood in our way_.

Alistair shook his head back at her as they tried to see each other across the gulf of their understanding. "Some things can't be undone, or forgiven. This goes way beyond having spotless honor. We aren't talking about having a minor hiccup in his past. . ." he urged. He shook his head again as the Mage still stared at him. His shoulders slumped.

"I didn't want to be king," he sighed. "I still don't." Then suddenly, his jaw clenched and he turned on his heel to face Anora. "But," he sneered, "if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I'll do it! I'll take the crown!"

Anora directed her expression of shock at the Mage. "Listen to this!" she exclaimed. "Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be? Putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country? You can't seriously support him."

The Mage did not doubt that Anora was surprised at Alistair's declaration, but she had a suspicion that the Queen was also privately delighted. An upstart bastard who had expressed no interest in ruling until just that moment was no threat to Anora; on the other hand, he had just given her a perfect opportunity to make him look unreliable and strengthen her own position. The Mage's shock was genuine, however. She had never expected Alistair to put himself forward as Ferelden's king, and would never have supported him if he had. A shrug, a bewildered shake of the head, and a palm pressed outwards in denial was all she could manage to convey that she had nothing to do with this mad idea. Anora looked satisfied, but Alistair rounded on the Mage in fury.

"You're siding with her? How could you do this to me? You, of all people?"

"I'm _trying_ to do what's best for Ferelden." The Mage ground her teeth in annoyance. This was no time for Alistair to stage one of his tantrums. If she just had an opportunity to explain to him what he should have figured out for himself by now, he would see the wisdom of this decision –or at least grow weary of the decision-making process and submit to her will. As much as she preferred not to have to pull rank –a rank he had gladly conceded to her when she was barely out of her Joining—she could do it if necessary.

"What's wrong with you?" Alistair was still baffled. "He's repeatedly tried to kill us both! And you side with _him_ over _me_?"

"That's not true," she said, trying to assume Riordan's soothing, placating tones. Of course, she thought –to Alistair, it was still a question of Loghain or the Wardens. He hadn't been in the Fade with her, hadn't participated in the trial that had brought her to this understanding. He couldn't see yet that he and Loghain, free of political ties, were now independent beings, not opposites, and could therefore coexist. She waited for Alistair to finish speaking –he was still stamping about and waving his arms about something—so that she could plant this new thought in his head and watch it grow into reason.

Alistair did not stop talking for some time, however. After a while the Mage was stunned to realize that he was actually preparing to leave the company right then and there, in front of the entire assembly. Her face flushed with anger and mortification. She glanced at Loghain, who remained facing stoically forward, though she thought she could detect a slight roll of his eyes and an almost imperceptible smirk. Evidently, Maric's other son was proving himself worthy of his half-brother. _Maker preserve us_ , she thought.

Alistair wasn't just threatening to leave like a petulant child, either; he actually seemed to be going through with it. He gave the dog (who whined, as though he couldn't understand what was happening either) a farewell pat on the head, and began taking his share of their company's looted items from his pack and tossing them at Shale, who watched them land at her feet with arch disgust but made no move to pick them up. His performance was halted by Anora's voice, calling to him across the chamber.

"I'm afraid it's not so simple as that, Alistair." Always cool, that voice, and seemingly clear and artless. It was so easy to believe that it meant only what it said.

Alistair strode back up the chamber to face her. Again, no glance in his daughter's direction from Loghain, though he was listening intently. If his eyes flickered, it was in the Mage's direction, as though assuring himself that she was paying attention as well.

"What?" Alistair snarled at Anora. "You got what you wanted. Your murdering father gets a place amongst the Grey Wardens. What else could you want from me?"

Anora's smirk was a beautiful imitation of her father's. "Your life, unfortunately," she said. "So long as you live, rebellions can be raised in your name. Our land cannot endure another civil war. I must call for your execution."

The Mage gasped, glancing around the chamber, expecting to see startlement or horror on the faces of the audience, their allies. Instead of rising in protest, however, the assembled nobles merely looked on, some nodding, some shrugging. She struggled to believe what was happening. She herself thought that Alistair could do with a couple of jolts of lightning to the head; but to accept his help, deny his wishes and then lead him off to his death? This was just like Orzammar all over again. Did every major decision in Fereldan politics have to be formalized by an execution? "No!" she shouted. Anora turned to her. "You owe me a boon," she urged. How much, thought the Mage, could she trust Anora to remember the help that she received from the Wardens in maintaining her crown? Or the reward she had promised them if their plans had succeeded? "Let him go, Anora."

Anora's eyes narrowed. " _This_ is what you would ask?" Her contempt for the Mage's soft-heartedness was plain. She sighed. "Very well –though I think it a mistake." She turned to Alistair and pronounced her judgment. "You may leave on condition that you swear before this Landsmeet that you renounce your claim to the throne, for yourself and all your heirs."

Looking at Alistair, the Mage wondered where Anora thought his heirs might possibly come from. Surely _he_ at least must know that the Grey Wardens were all the family he was likely to have?

"That's what it'll take, huh? Fine," he spat. "I don't want anything to do with this place or _any_ of you people, EVER! I swear it!" Then, he faced the Mage for the last time. "Time for me to go," he said.

"You don't have to leave." Hold the choice in front of him, let him see its brightness, let him see that he is free to take it. Give him wisdom, and hope. _This is your family, Alistair. Who ever gets to choose their family? It's the same for everyone, everywhere you go._

Alistair, his face dark, his voice bitter, turned away. "Have fun ending the Blight. . .or whatever." He picked up his lightened pack and slung it over his shoulders. "I guess you made your decision, right? So goodbye."

He set his back to the assembly and strode out of the hall. Various nobles stirred, stretched, began to group and gossip with their friends as they prepared to leave. Riordan approached Loghain who, escorted by armed guards, followed the Orlesian out a side door. The Warden's Mabari plunked his rear end on the floor of the hall and made a mournful song to the arched ceiling. After this victory, all the Mage wanted was to get her company together and leave this blasted city –or possibly to have a bath first. She recalled wryly how happy she had been when Duncan had explained to her that the Grey Wardens never meddled in politics. An image had begun to appear in her head, when she thought of the machinations of society and government, that she could not shake: that of a shambles, a river of people in an endless march, with those in the middle of the herd trudging mindlessly towards the knacker's or the butcher's knife, while those on the perimeter fought constantly with each other for the right to sit on the fence and wield the prods.


	3. Four Firsts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: This chapter contains dialogue lifted from the "first conversation in camp" scene between the Warden and Loghain in Dragon Age: Origins._

Only Riordan and Anora were present at Loghain's Joining ceremony. Back at Eamon's estate, the Mage lay in her bath, suspended in a cloud of herb-scented steam. Occasionally the Mabari would poke his head over the rim of the tub, roll a tragic eye in her direction, then sink back down to the floor where he lay next to her. Someone else –Shale, Eamon, Anora, the Mage did not know or care who—informed the rest of the company of the day's events. When she finally joined them in the downstairs chamber where they had gathered to wait, they were standing or sitting in aggressively noncommittal postures by their trussed-up packs. Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the aroma of steamed dog that followed the Mage and the Mabari through the door, but for once declined to voice her opinion. Each companion's eyes turned to their commander's and then, when she said nothing, looked away: Morrigan and Sten, respecting her decision to be silent; Shale, not caring one way or the other; Oghren and Zevran, bursting for details and frustrated at receiving none; Leliana, discomfited and sad. She had liked Alistair. He had been awkward with her at first, unaccustomed as he was to such outrageously soft and girlish attentions, but Leliana had found his awkwardness endearing. Alistair's innocence, of course, had also made him harmless. If Leliana came to him in camp and wrapped her arms around him, or combed his hair and sang to him as they sat by the fire, he would simply accept it and never ask more of her than she offered. He was like a pet or a large, warm pillow. He would never break her heart. In her sorrowful expression, the Mage saw that Leliana was now contemplating all the remaining days of her journey with no one to turn to for comfort when she needed it. The Mage also knew that there was nothing she could do to help her sweet Orlesian sister –being, as she was, so often the cause of Leliana's need.

The only pack left open was the Warden's own, leaning up against the far wall. She crossed to it and began to sort through the day's accumulation of loot, parsing through what to keep and what to sell. The prize of the day was a sword almost too long and heavy for the Mage to carry, though the woman from whose body it was taken had not been much larger than she. Few individual deaths along their travels had caused the Mage more regret than that of Ser Cauthrien, whose proud, steadfast loyalty to her lord had been tempered with intelligence and wisdom regarding his recent actions, and a heartfelt prayer that he could be redeemed. Graceful and powerful, Ser Cauthrien's sword had suited her; now, the Warden's own stalwart lieutenant would wield it. She presented it without a word to Sten, who scowled as usual at the suggestion that he carry any weapon but his own Asala. After examining the new blade, however, he took it silently from her hands. Attached as he was to the sword he called his soul, he was not so sentimental that he would not acknowledge or use a superior weapon if it was offered to him. Asala was stowed in his pack as a spare –he would never actually sell it or leave it behind—and the Summer Sword was set to take its place. Before sheathing it at his back, Sten addressed the greatsword in his own language, his eyes intent, his voice solemn and low. The Mage could not tell if he was welcoming his new friend or giving respectful thanks to its previous owner. Satisfied either way, she left him to it.

No one else spoke. They all seemed wary of starting that first conversation, in which the preposterous truth would inevitably have to be acknowledged that at any minute, Loghain Mac Tir might be stalking through the door with his own pack on his shoulders. The fact that no word had yet come from Riordan about the results of the Joining led the Mage to believe that Loghain must have lived; however, she forced herself to consider their situation in either eventuality. If he lived, she would have to integrate him into the company as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. For this, she would have to ensure that he behaved with a sense of respect and cooperation –and that her companions returned the favor. Aside from Leliana and the dog, they weren't exactly a gentle bunch; and the echoes of Loghain's scathing words at the Landsmeet were still ringing in her ears. She sighed. The situation could get ugly if any of them elected not to play nicely. Since no one in the group but Alistair had had a truly personal grudge against Loghain, she could reasonably count on them following their leader's example; she was completely in the dark about Loghain, however. She supposed that she should have a talk with him in camp as soon as he seemed up to it. Hopefully she would not to have to resort to the "I spared your life and I'm the boss, so you'll do what I say and behave yourself" approach, but just finding out whether or not Loghain was going to make that necessary would give the Mage a good idea of what to expect from him.

On the other hand, if he were not to survive the Joining ceremony, their campaign to save Ferelden from the Blight was going to suffer pretty severely. For one thing, the Mage would be the only active Grey Warden in the entire country. She could not count on the enigmatic Orlesian who so far had maintained a detached, "just passing through" attitude toward their plight. For another, they would not have a single sword-and-shield warrior in the entire company. Sten, Oghren and Shale were perfectly competent warriors in their own way, but their fighting styles made them somewhat slow; and in addition to their offense, her Warriors presented a front of strength to the enemy, to absorb the bulk of their aggression so that the smaller, less heavily armed Rogues and Mages could do their work properly. This bulwark would be less effective without a Warrior fast enough to maneuver with the enemy, but still strong enough to take a beating. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the company had already lost its healer. Both Mages in the party knew a basic healing spell, and her commander had had the foresight to force Morrigan to wheedle the more highly specialized Revival spell out of Wynne before the older Mage had deserted them; but the White Demon and the Witch of the Wilds were not healers. Between them, they had tacitly agreed that the best way they could protect their companions was to make sure that their enemies died as quickly as possible. With one less Warrior in the party, that strategy may have to be revised. . . _Who knows_ , thought the Mage. _Morrigan may actually have to practice that Revival spell_.

At least the idea of Morrigan using advanced healing magic to revive a fallen comrade provided the Mage with her first amusement in quite some time. The silence and the waiting were beginning to weary even her, who had spent many a contented hour alone in the Circle studies while the other apprentices giggled and nudged and tried to hex each other under the table. Sten had finished his communion with the Summer Sword and had also fallen silent. The Mage wondered if this was remotely like how Shale had felt in the middle of the Honnleath village square. No wonder her memory had fallen to bits and been replaced with stilted images and fog. It felt as though the world had forgotten them all in this room.

Zevran's head drooped and rested on the cold armored shoulder of Oghren, who was too stupefied to care. The dog lay on the carpet and snored. Morrigan was preening, picking stubborn flecks of blood out of the feathers that adorned her left shoulder. Leliana and Sten were both either sleeping or meditating, sitting upright with their eyes closed. And finally, the door to the chamber opened –but it was not Loghain who entered. Instead, Anora glided in, sleek and serene, pretty hands composed as always. Catching the Warden's eye, she inclined her head, and smiled.

* * *

Night was falling as they left Denerim. They could have stayed, and gone in the morning, but neither the Mage nor Loghain cared to spend another minute in the city, least of all in Arl Eamon's empty estate. The Arl himself had already departed for Redcliffe to oversee the final muster of the Wardens' new armies. The Queen and the Wardens themselves were to follow as soon as they were able. Anora appeared content to cooperate with Eamon, but the Mage wondered if Eamon found the young Queen's captivating ways quite as amusing as he had before the Landsmeet. In any case, she was glad to be allowed to leave them to their devices, and meant to put as much distance between herself and Denerim as possible without delay. She was also mindful of what awaited Loghain when he went to sleep for the first time after his Joining. Though she could not prevent the visions from coming, she could at least try to exhaust his brain and body so that he could perhaps sleep through them instead of thrashing around and waking himself up every hour or so. She would also make sure that he knew what to expect. No one had told the newly joined young Mage that she would dream of the Archdemon on that first night, or that it would also dream of her. She still found this annoying. She had never understood the point of such secrecy, especially towards their own recruits. And Riordan seemed to share the same coyness as his Fereldan counterparts. No wonder, she thought grimly, that fables and conspiracy theories alike were hatched about the Grey Wardens.

Once out of the city, the company turned northwest and disappeared into the forest. Most of them quickly assumed their usual travelling formation –Zevran keeping a solicitous eye on his mistress's back, Oghren stumping alongside his fellow debauchee and occasionally using the Mabari for balance, Sten and Shale pacing tirelessly in large, silent communion at the rear, Morrigan gliding amongst them at will as her mood changed or she tired of someone's company. Only Leliana seemed at a loose end, without Alistair's buoyant warmth and good humor to anchor her. She drifted first towards one companion and then another like an orphaned nestling. At some point Sten detected the passing of a deer close by and alerted his commander, who signaled to the Orlesian archer and sent them both in pursuit. Leliana unslung her bow and, clearly thankful for some occupation, followed the Qunari's broad back into the deepening gloom. Nothing but the path before his feet seemed to register with the newest member of their party, however. Loghain was a shadow of dark hair and a flicker of beaten silver armor at the Mage's right-hand side, his face a waning moon under scuds of purple cloud.

They camped at the foot of Soldier's Peak. Oghren lit a fire in the middle of a clearing and the others began to pitch their tents around it according to their preference of neighbors and distance therefrom. Leliana and Sten returned from their hunt, Sten with the dead deer slung over his shoulders. He began to dress it while the usual whining broke out amongst the company about whose turn it was to cook. The Dwarf merchant Bodahn, who still found travelling with the Wardens more profitable than it was dangerous, trundled into camp some while later with his cartload of goods. Bodahn had been waiting for the Wardens outside the Denerim gates; as they left, the Mage had told him where she planned to stop for the night and he had set off by a more manageable road to meet them. He was accompanied by his young assistant, Sandal; with them were another, armed Dwarf; a human knight bearing the Redcliffe crest; a Tranquil from the Circle of Magi; and a Werewolf. These others were emissaries from the four armies who had pledged to fight for the Grey Wardens in place of the army that was cut down at Ostagar. They stood apart from the circle of tents and bedrolls, waiting.

Their "domestic" arrangements were by now such a force of habit that the company executed them without speaking, and almost without thinking. Loghain stood by the fire with his pack at his feet, watching the others work around him. If he was waiting to be told where he should set up his own camp, it soon became obvious without his having to ask. In the performance of their routine, the company had automatically left a gap in the circle round the fire, exactly where Alistair would have pitched his tent. Everyone seemed to become aware of this at the same time. They gazed in silence at the empty space, then at Loghain. His eyes scanned their faces; the Mage looked on from where she crouched by her own tent. When it became clear that no one was going to say anything, he shrugged and took his place.

The fire seemed to bring Loghain out of himself a little. Though it had probably been quite some time since General Mac Tir had had to set up his own camp, he did so with the speed and skill of long practice that the Mage, frankly, envied. Afterwards he sat on a rock near the fire and surveyed the rest of the campsite as he waited for the meat to roast. The Mage watched him take in his surroundings. He registered first Bodahn and the cart, then each of the emissaries -giving an ironic nod of greeting to the Redcliffe knight, who glared back at him but remained silent. When his eyes suddenly sprang alert and his right hand jerked towards his sword, the Mage knew that he had spotted the Werewolf. She waited, ready to intervene if necessary but curious to see what he would do. Loghain glanced around the campsite and saw no one else raising the alarm; he also seemed to note with interest that the Werewolf was standing upright and seemed as likely to attack as any of his fellows. Slowly, the Warrior's hand returned to resting on his knee. The Mage smiled to herself and got up to address the emissaries who waited in turn to speak with her. She could not see him, but had no doubt that Loghain was watching as she visited with each of them, distributing supplies and coin to all except the Werewolf, who conversed with her courteously for a moment before accepting a Nug and retreating to the shadows out of politeness for his table manners.

Supper was another familiar routine, mostly involving fending off the dog. He was given his own portion before anyone else, but still seemed more interested in sharing those of his companions. Loghain's eyes registered quiet amusement as he observed the others' efforts to wave or shout the Mabari away. When the meal was over, the dog picked up the bone from his portion in his teeth and lay down by the party's newest member to gnaw on it. The other companions glanced at each other, nonplussed; but Loghain smiled at his new friend and began to scratch the Mabari behind the ears. The Mage wondered if her war dog might have a special affinity for Grey Wardens –after all, he himself had once experienced the taint. Or perhaps he just knew a good ear-scratcher when he saw one. Loghain's broad hand rested on the top of Dog's head while the nails, pads and knuckles of his fingers worked the dusty brown hide. The Mage couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, but whatever it was, it sent the Mabari into transports. To convey his thanks, the war dog pushed and leaned his way in between the Warrior's legs and stuck his muzzle inches from Loghain's face. Loghain did not pull away from the hot blasts of affection issuing from the dog's panting mouth, but returned his gaze steadily for several minutes, much as Sten had done when he and the Mabari had first met. Dog concluded their wordless conversation with a happy bark and trotted off to make his usual round of the campsite. But though he visited every companion and marked every tree in the clearing, he circled back constantly to Loghain, resting his chin on the new Warden's knee and begging for another scratch.

The only truly awkward moment of the evening came when Loghain's eyes rested on the Summer Sword as it hung from Sten's back. The Mage saw him blink twice, frown, and then let out a soft sigh –of resignation or regret, she could not tell. He had probably not been aware of Ser Cauthrien's death until just now, she thought. The spirit that he had regained from the warmth of the fire and the dog's affections seemed suddenly to leave him; the Champion looked merely old, bruised, and tired. He continued to stare at the sword and at Sten for some time. The Mage wondered how he would react if he were ever to learn that it was not Sten but the Mabari, whose tongue was even now lolling shamelessly under Loghain's ministrations, who had torn out Ser Cauthrien's throat before the Landsmeet chamber.

Shortly after this he rose, preparing to enter his tent and go to sleep. The Mage rose as well and called to him; those who had not already retired for the night watched her lead him away from the fire for a private word. She questioned Loghain briefly and discovered that indeed, Riordan had neglected to inform him of the nightmares that would accompany his first night as a Grey Warden; her evident disgust at the Orlesian's remissness caused one corner of Loghain's mouth to hitch briefly upwards. The Mage minced no words in letting him know what he was to expect. She also advised him to take some of the remaining meat from supper into his tent with him, in case he should awaken in the middle of the night. He looked skeptical at this but, upon hearing her explanation and seeing that she meant to do the same, did as he was told. The Mage took the first watch so that she could keep an eye on her new charge's tent, in case she was needed. The Mabari curled up at the entrance to Loghain's tent and dozed, occasionally cocking his ears at the interior and whining. There was no sound from inside the tent that anyone else could hear for the rest of the night.

Next day, the Mage was not surprised to see Loghain emerge from his tent last of anyone in the company. He appeared to have gotten at least some sleep, anyway; his complexion was less bruised-looking and his glance more alert than they had been since the Waking Nightmare spell had hit him the day before. Rubbing his hands together to rid them of the morning's chill, he looked around the campsite, clearly ready to be given something to do. Immediately he spotted the majority of his new companions clustered around Bodahn. Most of them, it turned out, were purchasing the same item, of which the Dwarf had a large stock. Curious, he strode down to the wagon to inquire, where Zevran –always the first biped of the company to welcome a newcomer- greeted him with a bow and explained that after their adventures in Denerim, many of the Warden's companions needed to replenish their personal supplies of Elixir of Grounding. Uncomprehending, Loghain shook his head, at which Zevran smiled and pressed a bottle of his own Elixir into Loghain's hand. "Please, I insist," said the Elf graciously. "You will thank me later."

"Are we expecting a spell of bad weather?"

Zevran chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, yes: several spells, in fact." His smile grew sly as he leaned in closer to Loghain's ear. "Our mistress tries to strike only at her enemies," he said, "but you know how it is: When the storm rages, everybody gets a little. . .wet."

And with a smoldering look and a sigh in the Mage's direction, he trotted off to finish packing.

Along with Zevran, Leliana and Sten had also elected to accompany the Mage on the climb up Soldier's Peak. They were nearly finished with their preparations for the journey, and would expect to leave the campsite soon. It was time for the Mage and Loghain to have their first real dialogue about his future as a Grey Warden. He had just finished a conversation with Bodahn and was wandering back towards the fire. If she was going to do this –and she must—she would have to do it now. The Mage stood up from her pack, took a deep breath, and moved to intercept him. Before she had half closed the distance, however, he had spotted his commander and altered his own course to meet her. As she opened her mouth to deliver the introductory remark she had prepared, she found to her surprise that he was already speaking.

"Curious, isn't it?" he said airily as he drew near. "Such fierce cravings for venison before the sun is even up? Lucky I happened to have some in my tent with me –it would have looked very unseemly for a Grey Warden to go ravening about the camp in the middle of the night. What would these fine people have thought?"

It was as much thanks for her forthrightness of the previous evening as the Mage felt likely to receive. More encouraging still was the understanding in Loghain's eyes, which regarded her this morning with something approaching actual approval. She smiled but said nothing. He chuffed once at his own joke, then nodded. The subject of his first night as a Grey Warden was both acknowledged and dismissed.

Now he shifted to a more businesslike stance: an officer reporting for duty. "So, I've passed your test," he declared, his tone a mixture of pride and chagrin. "Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems." He looked at her closely. "I suppose you think I'm some kind of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently."

The Mage shook her head knowingly, still smiling. "The same could be said for all of us," she answered. "If you're a monster, but have been unable to kill me, then what am I?"

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Hah –you're the White Demon, of course; or so the gossips in Denerim call you. Point taken. So, what's to be done? How are two such terrible creatures to be rid of each other at last?"

It was not difficult for the Mage to assume an air of being at a loss here. "Ah, now, that's the mystery," she said archly. "I may have to resort to some _real_ magic next."

His answering snort seemed to be yanked from him against his will. "Oh?" he asked when he'd recovered. "What was all that nonsense with the Darkspawn blood and the mages, then? A puppet show? It seems to me that magic has already failed." An ironic inward smirk indicated that he knew perfectly well how successful magic had been against him the day before. Still, he persisted. "I'd recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time," he said. "Less impressive, but it gets the job done." A coolly arched eyebrow taunted her to respond. The Mage had had prior experience with Loghain's eyebrows, but had assumed that he only employed them on dramatic occasions with an important audience. She now guessed that they must be naturally conditioned to act out his thoughts even as he spoke them –or even if he didn't. She let her own eyebrows and pursed mouth pretend that she was considering his suggestion.

"The plan loses something when you're the one suggesting it," she said at last.

"Hm," he grunted. "I suppose it does lack the element of surprise." His expression sobered again as he regarded her. "Well, then? What shall we do to settle things between us?"

The Warden shrugged. There was only one answer to that question; she only hoped that he could see it too. "We're going to have to work together," she said simply.

To her surprise, the Warrior smiled. "Is that punishment meant for me or for you?" he asked.

The Mage let out a puff of laughter that startled her more than it did him; almost immediately, they both knit their brows and looked reflectively at the ground. For her part, the Warden was processing the fact that just now, her cooperation with Loghain Mac Tir did not seem like much of a punishment.

Loghain himself seemed equally puzzled. "And just like that, we're allies?" he wondered. His eyes narrowed sharply as he scanned his former enemy's face: for lies, she imagined, or weakness. "I don't know what concession you want from me, Warden," he said. "I expect my word will not satisfy you." _Ah_ , she thought. _Or he wants to know if I'm a personal threat. Perhaps he thinks I require signed documents or a blood oath, or some other token of subjugation. What would he have me do, if he were in my place?_

"I need to know I can trust you," she answered, which was the truth.

He shook his head. "Nothing I can say will prove that. Either I will be worthy of trust, or I won't," he said, which was just as true. The Mage smiled. From what she had heard of Loghain Mac Tir, he seemed the type to prefer his actions to speak for him, and she was far from disappointed. Her lack of hostility, however, seemed to surprise and even discomfit him a little. His frown deepened and he eyed her with suspicion.

"I think it's time we got to the point here," he said. "What do you want from me? I can't imagine that you spared my life in the Landsmeet by accident. You have some plan in mind."

"I'm giving you a chance," she replied, and held her breath. _Hold it up, leave him free to choose if he wants_. For the second time in as many days. "I want you to take it."

A blink; a pause as he considered her; then a slow, wry smile. "Fortunate for me, then, that I've always been a man to take chances," answered Loghain.

The Mage tried not to look as triumphant as she felt. Instead, she settled for another smile and a nod in the direction of Soldier's Peak. "Come on, then," she beckoned.

She turned to summon the others. Before she could move away, he checked her with a brusque jerk of his shoulders. When she looked back at him, he was glowering at the ground. "All of this can rightly be called my fault," he said harshly. "Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen." And then he lifted his head and she saw a raw earnest face unmasked. "But if you can make this the end, Warden," he said, "I will follow you. I swear it."

In his expression, the Mage saw a searing sense of loss, and an unspoken plea for _her_ to make things right. What did he think she might give him? Hope? A purpose? A chance at redemption? She felt a sudden fear of failing him, deeper than that of merely dying at the Landsmeet, and swallowed it. "We will find a way to end this Blight," she answered. Only words, of course; and meaningless without action, as he knew; but it was enough to be going on with. He nodded. "Andraste help us, then," he said.

* * *

Loghain may not have registered exactly where they were headed the previous night, but he had evidently noted the direction they had taken. As they approached Soldier's Peak, the Mage observed him consulting a map and trying to work out where they were, presumably by estimating the distance they had traveled and checking the map's landmarks against his surroundings. Occasional huffs and grumblings could be heard over her right shoulder along with the rustle of the map; if he was correct in his calculations, the Mage thought she could guess the reason for them. Finally, just as the tops of the fortress towers came into view, she heard the map snap closed and a quick crunching of snow as he pulled up alongside her. She did not slow her pace but turned a bland, unruffled gaze to his challenging look, and his outstretched arm pointing accusingly at the Peak.

"I thought this place was supposed to be haunted," he demanded.

"It was."

A pause while his eyebrows bunched together for a conference. Meanwhile, more of the fortress became visible as they drew nearer. "So we're here on a ghost hunt, then, is that it?" he asked finally. "Don't we have enough problems as it is?"

"Actually, we're going shopping."

The eyebrows jumped up in protest. "I beg your pardon?"

"Hello, Levi."

Sunlight bathed the snow-covered clearing at the south door of the fortress. The reflected radiance off the ground caused the walls of Soldier's Peak to affect a golden glow. Crows hopped along the paths to either side and children chased them. On the north side of the clearing, a merchant was hailing the party.

"Welcome back, Warden!" called Levi Dryden. "A fine morning for a visit to the Peak. What can I do for-" Suddenly he choked, and stared, as the Mage and her companions trooped up and stood before him. The Mage wore an expression of polite befuddlement. This seemed to further confuse Levi, who proceeded to dart pointed warning looks both at the Mage and at a spot past her right shoulder. When she still did not respond, her newest recruit prompted her in a stage whisper loud enough to make Leliana jump:

"What he means to say is, 'Don't look now, Warden, but Loghain Mac Tir is _right behind you_.'"

This last was hissed with such perfect pantomime villainy that a snort of laughter escaped her before the Mage could suppress it. Levi Dryden's eyes grew alarmed and he looked wildly round, as though about to call for help. The Mage stopped biting her lip and tried to look serene.

"It's all right, Levi."

From over her shoulder came a series of low glottal stops that she was later to identify as the sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling to himself.

Levi was evidently still searching his brain for an explanation. He leaned in conspiratorially towards the Mage and jerked his head at Loghain. "You going to fight him here, then?" He nodded sagely. "That's okay, Warden, we'll keep it quiet. Least we can do, after you avenged Sophia and gave us the Peak."

The Mage looked at him quizzically. "So, you think I've kidnapped Loghain Mac Tir and brought him all the way to Soldier's Peak, just to kill him?" she asked. "Now, why in Andraste's name would I do that?"

"Well, he's Regent, innit? And a teyrn. Could be messy for you if you did it in Denerim. But up here, no one'll be the wiser. We'll give the body to the snow, or to old Avernus. Come to think of it, you wouldn't have to kill him at all. Old Avernus will be glad to have him just as he is—"

"Levi!" snapped the Mage. "No one is being handed over to Avernus, do you understand?"

His face fell. "Yes, my lady," he said sheepishly.

"He still keeps to his tower, does he?"

"He does. We keep the youngsters away from his door. He never comes out."

"Good. See that his door remains shut, Levi."

"Yes, my lady."

Sten had already wandered up the western ridge to take in the sparkling mountain air and gaze over the pine-wooded slopes below. Leliana and Zevran both needed crafting supplies; as the Mage and Loghain moved aside to let them through, she sighed. "Word will soon get around about what happened at the Landsmeet," she muttered dismissively. "We shouldn't have to endure too many repeats of that conversation. . .I hope."

"Who or what is Avernus, and why—"

The Mage shook her head. "You really don't want to know."

"Oh, you think you can shock me, do you?" The eyebrows were skeptical. "Go on, try. What would happen to me if you decided to hand me over to old Avernus?"

The Mage drew a breath, raised her eyes to Avernus's tower and answered in a careless lilt: "You would be kept in a cage and subjected to a series of experiments on the nature and effects of pain, energy, and lots of tainted blood -mostly yours, of course." She lowered her gaze to Loghain's deeply incredulous face and continued. "All of Avernus's former test subjects are long since dead, so it would be just you and he, alone in that tower amongst the bones and the dust, until your usefulness to him ended with your life." She smiled sweetly.

"Is this the truth?" he demanded. "How do you know this?"

She shrugged. "We came here a few months ago on a ghost hunt, as you put it, and found him. He had not cleaned his laboratory or even disposed of the bodies in the cages. His journal gave the details of the experiments. We also saw some of the fruits of his efforts. He himself is one, actually –he is well over a century old, despite being a Grey Warden." She gave a short, dry laugh. "In a way, I'm surprised we didn't find him even madder than we did, stuck up in his tower for decades with nothing but mangled bodies, wraiths, demons and the animated corpse of Sophia Dryden for company."

"Huh. And he has been allowed to live, even after what he's done?"

"I prefer not to end a person's life just because I disapprove of what they've done," said the Mage, giving Loghain a meaningful look that caused his eyes to roll heavenward. "I only step in if I see that their actions are preventing others from living their own lives freely."

"But isn't that exactly what Avernus—"

The Mage raised a conciliatory palm. "If he tries to do it again, he will be stopped, and killed if necessary. But killing him now will not bring those people back; whereas if he lives, he could still be of use. He has other, less gruesome methods of research." She shook her head. "Avernus is harmless as long as he never comes out of his tower and no one else goes in. Levi has promised to keep him out of mischief. . ."

They both looked back at Levi, remembering his previous suggestion regarding old Avernus. Loghain coughed once. "Hmm, yes," he murmured. The Mage's expression echoed the doubt in his voice. "And so these are the people with whom you choose to do business?" he asked her.

"Well, Denerim was a bit dodgy for us Wardens for a while, if you'll recall. We've been forced to trade out of the way. Besides, Levi Dryden gives us a good bargain."

"A _ha_." The brows lifted, releasing a flash of blue. "A Dryden, is he? Some relation of Sophia's, I presume. Interesting. I was not aware that there were any Drydens left in Ferelden. Now it all begins to make sense. Let me guess: you cleansed the ancestral fortress for him, so he cuts you a deal on a new pair of boots."

She laughed. "We come here mostly to sell, actually; but yes, something like that. Today we're shopping for _you_ , however." She glanced at his bare head. "You need a helmet," she said, "and a new sword."

"What's wrong with my sword?" he demanded.

She lowered her eyes at him. "I may be a Mage," she argued, "but I've looted, bought and sold enough of those things by now to be able to tell an exceptional sword from a common one. I can't believe you're actually carrying that thing around. You could have had the best sword in Ferelden; and you settle for this?" She gestured behind his back at the plain, middling-caliber weapon that hung there.

"I happen to place a greater value on the swordfighter than the sword, Warden. The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it."

"That is true," conceded the Mage, "but think how much more devastating a good swordfighter would be, if he wielded a really good sword. Now, come on: we're going to see Mikhael Dryden about getting you one."

"More Drydens, yet," grumbled Loghain.

"You'll like this one. He'll have no truck with old Avernus." She led him across the gleaming snow to the shadowed side of the clearing, where an outdoor forge was already smoking. A couple of apprentices were removing a breastplate from the forge and placing it across a pair of wooden horses to be etched. Weapons and armor for sale lay out under a canopy for protection from the weather and the crows. As she and Loghain approached, the smith set down his tools, removed his gloves, and met the Mage with a determined expression.

"Warden," he said, "you know what I'm about to ask you."

She grinned. "There's no need, Mikhael," she answered. "Today, you shall finally get what you want." As he eagerly watched, the Mage drew from her pack a smoke-colored lump of charred rock and handed it to the smith. "Maker," he breathed, "I never thought I'd get to hold this."

"You've said you can make me a sword with this?"

"I've _begged_ you to let me make you a sword with this, my lady, as you well know. I've been pestering her for months," he complained to Loghain. "Every time she comes to the Peak. 'At least sell it to me,' I've said, 'if you've got no use for it.'"

"You know I couldn't sell something like this, Mikhael. No, I had to use it –I just needed a good enough reason. And now I have." She indicated the Warrior by her side. "This man needs a new sword. A _good_ sword."

"My lady, with this metal I will make you a sword the likes of which you have never seen."

He hurried to the forge with the lump of rock held lovingly in front of him. The Mage smiled in anticipation and turned to Loghain. "He says it won't be long; let's have a look at these helmets while we wait."

They strolled over to the racks of helmets under the canopy, where the Mage began to inspect each one in turn.

"So?" asked Loghain at length. "Are you going to tell me what that stuff was that has Mikhael Dryden in such ecstasies?"

"We found it in a deep depression in the earth -it looked as though someone had punched the ground with a very large fist. Mikhael says that lump did it, falling from the sky. He says it's a star –or part of a star, anyway; I didn't quite know what he was talking about. But he says it only happens once in many centuries, and we only found enough for one weapon; so you see why I had to wait until my choice was clear before I let him have it."

"Huh."

She placed the last helmet back on its rack, shaking her head. "These are well made, but they're nothing special. I'd prefer not to waste our funds. If you can manage to keep your head on for a couple of days, we should be able to find or buy you something appropriate. We have a few stops to make before Redcliffe Castle, anyway."

"A few stops? Are we making a tour of the countryside?" He cast an eye at Levi Dryden, who was still staring suspiciously in their direction.

"I don't intend to parade you around like a beast at the fair, if that's your concern. But we have some pieces of unfinished business to attend to. A couple of promises to fulfill. And I need to make as much coin and gather as many supplies as I can while we still have time. I've been funding an army too, you know." She shot him a pointed look. "And I haven't got a stock of Elves to sell."

Loghain emitted a harsh shout of laughter. "Ah, _yes_." he crowed. "Now we come to it at last. I knew that you couldn't possibly have _nothing_ to reproach me with." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, legs braced apart in the snow. "Go on, by all means," he invited her. "You disapprove of my dealings with the Tevinter merchants, do you?"

She turned from the racks to face him. "The Tevinter _slavers_ , yes, I do. I've already said that I disapprove of anything that stifles another person's freedom or uses him unwillingly for one's own ends."

"Yes; and how touchingly noble that is of you, Warden," he spat. "I only pray you never have to make a hard choice between preserving a handful of freedoms and liberating an entire nation. I'd hate to see that shining light get tarnished –or worse, to see you choose our ruin instead, so long as you get to keep glittering."

The Mage's eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. "You saw that Werewolf in camp?" she hissed. "He's there because a stubborn old Dalish mage refused to accept him and his brothers –his people—as thinking, reasoning, independent beings. He thought of them only as vermin, though _he_ was the one who had cursed them; and when the curse started to bite his own clan, he enjoined _us_ as his exterminators. I met the Werewolves," she said defiantly. "I spoke to them. I saw that all they wanted was to be a free people. I could not deny them that."

"Hmm. And your old Dalish mage, failing to appreciate the wisdom of that decision, attempted to dissuade you, I suppose? I take it that his arguments were unsuccessful?"

Her nostrils flared; her jaw set. She made no further move, but her rising temper was evident and Loghain flicked a wary eye at her staff even as he spoke. Suddenly he checked, frowning. Still watching her hands for any sudden movements, he stepped carefully around her and peered between her shoulder blades. The Mage knew exactly what had caught his attention and stood her ground, waiting for him to finish his inspection. His look as he turned back to her was very knowing, his voice a conspiratorial purr.

"That staff you're carrying looks very old," he observed casually. "Much too old to belong to a young woman who was barely out of her Harrowing when I first met her, not too many months ago. In fact," he declared, "it looks like the type of staff that might once have belonged to a very foolish, blind, stubborn old bat of a Dalish Mage."

His eyes were smug, his mouth sneering. She continued to gaze levelly at him. When it was clear that she refused to be goaded, he straightened, re-crossed his arms, and slowly nodded.

"And thus an army of Werewolves honors your treaty –forgive me, _our_ treaty- instead of the Dalish," he concluded.

"The Werewolves are as ready to honor their allegiance to the Wardens, and to defend their homes against the Blight, as any race in Ferelden."

A signal from Mikhael indicated that the new sword was ready. The Mage turned and began to walk back towards the forge. Loghain, however, maintained his stance. When she had gone several paces he called out to her.

"So you still believe that your actions with the Dalish are somehow less reprehensible than mine with the elves in Denerim?"

She stopped. Across the clearing, heads turned in their direction. For a moment the Mage stood looking at the snow. Then turning, she strode back until their eyes locked at the same distance from which they had faced each other at the Landsmeet. Her expression was solemn but her voice clear. "I regret killing the innocent," she answered. "He would not lift the curse and he would not face us alone; he ordered his clan to fight us and they obeyed him because he was their leader. They did not know that he had been the cause of it all. Had they known the truth, they would have been able to decide for themselves, to follow him or not. He kept them in ignorance, and so they died."

A nervous cough reminded them that Mikhael Dryden was still holding his creation out for them to admire. Still glaring at each other, they crossed back to where he stood. He presented it to them with a triumphant air.

"I call it the Starfang." He gazed at it with affectionate wonder.

The Mage and Loghain stared at the sword. The metal ore had been the color of smoke, but the sword in Mikhael Dryden's hands was like the inside of a glacier, traced with veins of frost.

"It's –a work of art, Mikhael," said the Mage. "I can't begin to thank you."

The smith beamed at them. The Mage took the sword and, after failing to be allowed to pay a single copper for what Mikhael said had been the privilege of working with such material, walked with Loghain past the clearing's entrance to a clump of trees on the other side, out of everyone's earshot. She still held the sword out in front of her. They both looked doubtfully at it.

"It's a bit fancy, isn't it?" said Loghain after a moment.

The Mage shook her head. "I've certainly never seen anything like it, that's for sure," she said. She frowned. "I'm sure it's an excellent sword.. . .Maybe once it's got some blood on it. . ." she finished hopefully.

"Maybe we should ask him to break it up into a couple of daggers for that Elf of yours instead." Still thinking of the slave traders, the Mage bristled. "Surely its prettiness is wasted on me," insisted Loghain.

"Zevran is not _my_ Elf."

"Oho, don't be coy, madam," he admonished her. "He is quite obviously yours -whether you choose to accept him or not."

For answer, the Mage stared balefully at Loghain, then at the Starfang, then back at Loghain. With a weary sigh, he took it from her, hefted it, ran it through a series of swings and jabs, and finally thrust it into the bole of a young pine, which shuddered and creaked ominously. As he dislodged the blade with a flick of his wrist he ground his teeth in a vain effort not to look pleased or impressed. The Mage turned away and looked at the sunlight bouncing off the high windows of the Peak so that he could belt his new sword at his back without her gloating. Presently the snow crunched briskly behind her, and a cough at her side indicated that Loghain was with her again.

"Anyway," she resumed, "you know as well as I do that the Archdemon hasn't made a move yet. We still have time and I'm going to make the most of it. I certainly don't want to loiter in Redcliffe Castle any longer than I need to."

"Warden, we are in complete agreement on that point at least. Lead on." He gestured towards the mountain path.

"Hang about, I want to check our supply cache."

With a groan of impatience, Loghain followed her back to the north side of the clearing. "Levi," called the Mage. "You still have that suit of armor I left here, don't you?"

"Yes, my lady."

She trotted ahead of Loghain to fetch a piece from the merchant. Choosing the massive plated torso, she hoisted it over her shoulder and started to bring it over to where Loghain was still plodding up to meet her. As soon as he caught sight of the armor, however, he shook his head defiantly.

" _No_. Not a chance," he bellowed. "You are not taking this armor away from me. Are you even aware—"

"Oh, save your breath," she rasped, plunking the torso she was carrying on the ground and eyeing it dismissively. "I can tell from here that your _armor_ at least is better than anything I could possibly give you. In fact—" she scanned the plate once more—"I can sell this lot now; I was saving it for Alistair if he should ever be strong enough—"

A snort. "Poor armor, I'm surprised it hasn't rusted into bits, waiting."

"But. . ." considered the Mage, falling to her knees in the snow and rummaging through a large chest that sat between Levi Dryden's stall and the steps leading up to Soldier's Peak: "we can use this-" she placed a nearly invisible item in her own pack—"and I think Zevran's about ready for this-" she laid a wicked-looking axe on the ground—"and. . .ah. Yes, I'd almost forgotten about this." She stood up, holding out a small object wrapped in a leather cord. "This is for you."

One eyebrow pointed at the contents of the Mage's hand; the other invited her to explain.

She began to unwrap the object. "After my Joining I was given this amulet" –she paused to lift the Warden's Oath from her throat, then resumed picking at the knots into which the leather cord had tied itself. "It contains a bit of Darkspawn blood, which gives me some extra protection, and is also meant to remind me of the sacrifice made by those who did not survive the Joining." She gazed at Loghain with a rueful smile. Loghain looked as though he might once have scoffed at such a statement but now knew better. "I don't suppose, however," she continued, "that Riordan happened to have one of these in his pack for you."

Loghain shook his head.

She shrugged, and sighed. "Unfortunately, neither do I, so this will have to do." She held up the amulet for him to see. He blinked, looking not at the amulet but at the Mage, and held out his hand.

She dropped it gently in his palm. "Just because we're a little disorganized these days, it doesn't mean you deserve less than any other recruit." She smiled warmly. "Take it, Warden -and welcome." Loghain looked thunderstruck. The Mage hoisted up the armor and a handful of other castoffs from the supply cache, and walked over to the merchant with Loghain still staring at her. With her back to him, she could not see when he finally looked at the object in his hand, but she could hear it: A short, sharp breath, quickly cut off. A pause.

"The Silver Sword of Mercy. Ha."

But when she turned back from selling off her loot to Levi, the amulet was around his neck.


	4. A Few Minor Details

Even the Mage knew that no verdict could truly be given on the new sword until it had been tested in the field. She suspected, however, that an opportunity would soon arise.

"Next stop, the Deep Roads," she announced in camp that afternoon.

Groans and shouts of protest from her followers. "Are you sodding kidding me?" growled Oghren. Morrigan clutched at her temples: "You can't be serious," she griped. "But I have just gotten the stink of those Deep Roads out of my hair!" moaned Leliana. A rumble of disapproval issued from Sten's throat. In the past he would have objected as strenuously as the others, but these days he restricted himself merely to putting on a sour face and abiding in silence. Shale, on the other hand, seemed to perk up somewhat, and regarded the Mage with interest.

The Mage waited patiently until the storm of complaints subsided. "It's like this," she explained. "We don't know how much time we have left before the Archdemon makes its move, but we have a feeling that it won't be long. We now have the semblance of an army, but it's still not as well equipped as I'd like. In fact," she admitted, "if the Archdemon were to make its move on Redcliffe tomorrow, the only ones of the whole lot of us I'd call fully equipped for battle would be this company and the Werewolves."

"He has no helmet," said Leliana, pointing at Loghain.

"Perhaps I choose not to wear one," he retorted. "Perhaps I am fully capable of outfitting myself, and need no handmaids to dress me."

"Perhaps I don't care," interjected the Mage, "as I prefer not to have to worry about unnecessary head injuries to any of my _followers_."

Loghain took the epithet with a sour look, followed by an ironic obeisance. "As you command, Grey Warden," he said. The Mage made an exasperated face and turned back to the others.

"The point is," she resumed, "our job until the final battle will be to gather as much coin, supplies and equipment for our armies as we can, as quickly as we can. Now, I know that the Deep Roads were no fun." Grumbles of assent from the company ("You can say that again," snarled Oghren). The Mage's voice grew louder to cover them. "But they were extremely _profitable_ ," she continued, "as you are all aware. You also know that we left quite a bit of them unexplored in our haste to find Branka and the Anvil." She paused to let this sink in. Her company was, for the most part, a fairly mercenary lot; they were thinking of the coin, weapons, armor and other treasures that they had already found in the caves and tunnels beyond Orzammar –some of which they had taken for themselves, rather than sell or give them away. She knew that they also recalled how many avenues in the old Dwarf kingdom they had passed by on their last mission. The grumbles ceased. The Mage cast her eyes over them until each one refocused and faced her again. "The Deep Roads are our best resource," she concluded. "And we'd be within a reasonable distance of Redcliffe, should we be needed."

The silence that followed was broken by Oghren, who turned to Loghain with a snort. "Well, you're in luck, Ser Regent or whatever you were until yesterday," he said grimly. "The boss is letting you cut your teeth on the toughest Bronto's hide of them all. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, heh."

"I hardly think his teeth need cutting, Oghren," said the Mage mildly.

"Yeah, well, he's gone soft in that palace of his, I'll bet," growled Oghren. "All those soft beds, and servant girls, and. . .wine. . .Just don't expect me to hold his Grace's hand when he catches his first sight of the Deep Roads." Loghain gave the Dwarf a peculiar, humorless smile at this, but said nothing.

They broke camp quickly. Bodahn left first to take the cart-worthy road to their next camp site. The emissaries would not be following the company into the Deep Roads, so the Mage sent them on to Redcliffe Castle with a note for the Queen and Arl Eamon apprising them of the Wardens' plan. As she handed over her message to the knight, the Mage made sure to mention to whom it should be delivered in a voice loud enough for Loghain to hear, in case he cared to add a postscript of his own for his daughter. A stiffening of his back told her that he had both heard the name and caught the hint, but the newest Grey Warden merely strode away to kick another layer of dirt over the remains of the fire. Bodahn gave the company a wave as he and the caravan left the clearing; the company themselves prepared to fall in behind the Mage according to their custom. Loghain, standing by to watch their formation, saw Shale stir last of all and take her usual place next to Sten. The Mage, waiting at the head of the pack, saw Loghain check, and frown, as his eyes searched first Sten's hands, then the Warden's, and finally Oghren's. She thought she could guess what he was looking for; he had certainly made three reasonable assumptions as to where the item might be.

"All right, I give up," announced Loghain to no one in particular, as though calling an end to a practical joke. "Who's got the golem's control rod?"

Immediately Shale stopped in her tracks, slumping forward like a discarded marionette. Morrigan groaned and buried her face in her hands. Sten fixed Loghain with a stony glare.

Eyes still on the ground, Shale spoke in a monotone. "I apologize. . .I cannot move without the Master's permission. . .I am but a tool in the hands of the Master. . .I await the Master's command. . ." she said.

The Mage sighed, and explained. "The golem has no control rod. Nothing controls Shale but Shale." The remaining members of the company all showed Loghain their empty hands.

His frown deepened. "It has a name?" he asked.

"A name," answered the Mage, "and a personality, and _complete independence_ –and, I might add, a pretty vicious temper." Shale straightened and fixed a greedy eye on Loghain's uncovered, crushable head.

"Huh." He stepped back a pace and extended an arm along the way ahead. "After you," he said. Shale swept past him with her nose in the air, Sten following suit beside her.

Oghren favored Loghain with a sympathetic look and a shrug as the company moved out. "I've been trying to find the 'off' switch on that sarcastic slag heap for weeks," he muttered.

* * *

They ran afoul of bandits the following day in the blighted lands north of Lothering. The company had nearly passed a low, overgrown hill when men armed with clubs and axes swarmed out from behind it and from a clump of trees on the other side of the path. Loghain, still at the rear of the company, was surrounded immediately. He barely had time to unsheath the Starfang before they set upon him. After stunning the bandits nearest to her with a mind-numbing blast, the Mage turned to see the ice-blue blade flash twice, back and forth, through the midsections of two bandits; they crumpled, each to a side, revealing Loghain's snarling face for one split second before he whirled, cursing, caught the skull of another bandit with the side of his shield and ran a fourth through the heart. As the Mage casually sent a fork of lightning through one of the stunned bandits near her, the Champion flicked the head off his final assailant with a satisfied yell. It was over in a blur. The rest of the company mopped up; afterwards they methodically searched their attackers' remains for anything of value. They did not find much –these men were most likely former residents of Lothering or the surrounding farmlands, clothed in rags and wolf pelts, refusing to be driven away and robbing travelers as much for food as for profit—but the looting was as much a part of their routine as anything else. Only Shale did not participate; her sole inducement to touch flesh was the opportunity to crush it.

That night, in camp, the Mage looked across the campfire to see Loghain sitting outside his tent on a stump, cleaning and sharpening the Starfang. His expression told her that the sword had indeed passed the test, and would be kept. Satisfied, she retrieved the nearly-invisible item from the cache at Soldier's Peak that she had stowed in her pack the day before, and went to fetch Sandal. As she and the young Dwarf approached the Warrior, he looked up from his work and addressed them amiably.

"You want something?" he asked.

"Enchantment!" said Sandal.

". . .I'm sorry?" spluttered Loghain.

"This is Sandal, Bodahn's assistant," said the Mage. "I'd like you to give him your sword, please."

Loghain exploded. "Blazing Andraste: what _now_?" he fumed. "You've already made me give up my own sword; now I've just gotten used to this –moonbeam—you forced on me; can't you leave it alone? What supernatural sword-making material have you found this time? A piece of petrified dragon's breath?"

"No, but funny you should say that. . ."

She held up the object from her pack. It was a design, a tracing, temporarily captured in a tile of stone: sinuous curves that somehow resembled a bloom, or a conflagration. Looking at it more closely, the Mage could see tiny, fiery rivulets running along the lines.

"Your new sword has the capacity to accept runes such as this one to enhance its powers," she explained to him. "Some runes offer extra protection, while some add offensive properties such as the ability to stun –or, in this case, a lash of fire to each blow you strike."

Loghain's expression grew chilly. "I'm aware of the use that _some_ people make of such things, Mage," he said testily. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I require little aid in the offensive department."

"Indeed," agreed the Mage. "But as we found this along the way and spent no coin on it, and as you finally have a sword capable of such improvements, I don't see why we shouldn't do all we can to make you as offensive as possible to the Darkspawn."

One corner of Loghain's mouth hiked grudgingly upwards, though he continued to glower at her. With a deep sigh in which could be heard the sound of limited patience unraveling, he handed over the Starfang.

"Enchantment," breathed Sandal. He took the sword and the rune from the Mage and carried them dreamily back to his place by the merchant's cart. The Mage remained standing by Loghain's tent, waiting. "It only takes a few minutes," she assured him. "Sandal's very good at this sort of thing."

"Is that all he can say?"

"It's all he can do, as far as I know; but he's been very handy to have around. Everyone in this camp who carries a weapon has at least one that has been enchanted by Sandal –except us Mages, of course."

"Of course," said Loghain drily. "Both of you are quite enchanting enough as it is."

The Mage chuckled as they both glanced across the campsite at Morrigan, who was beating off the dog's attempts to get her to throw a stick for him. Loghain whistled softly through his teeth to get the Mabari's attention, then patted the side of the stump on which he was sitting. The war dog gamboled over and presented the dripping stick to his new friend, who immediately tossed it in Shale's direction. The Mage sat cross-legged on the ground by Loghain's tent as Dog bounded away.

"Would you like to know how much Levi Dryden gave me for that old mule's tooth you called a sword?" offered the Mage, after a brief pause in which Shale's curses and threats carried over the still evening air.

"An old mule can still kill you, you know, if you poke him once too often."

A wicked grin simmered on the Mage's face. Loghain aimed to pierce it with a sidelong look from underneath his lowered brow. Dissolving into silent laughter, she turned away from his glare; in doing so, she spotted Sandal returning with the sword laid across his outstretched palms. Loghain, following her gaze, put a forefinger to his mouth and regarded Sandal speculatively, as though working out the answer to a riddle. As the Dwarf reached them, beaming, Loghain cocked the finger and an eyebrow at him before he could speak.

"'Enchantment': yes?" asked Mac Tir sagely.

"Hello," said Sandal.

Loghain let out a _whoof_ of surprise and amusement. Taking the sword, the Mage thanked the young Dwarf politely, then turned and presented it once again to Loghain, hilt first.

"There you are: petrified dragon's breath," she said.

As he grasped the sword-hilt, their eyes met. Suddenly the Mage became conscious of the fact that her erstwhile nemesis was holding a very powerful weapon which she had just calmly handed to him, and that the point was aimed more or less directly at her collarbone. Moreover, she was still sitting with her legs crossed and her staff at an awkward angle against her back. A stirring in Loghain's eyes and a flicker of eyebrows suggested that the same thoughts had occurred to him. His mouth curled in a smirk, much as it had as he stalked her across the Landsmeet chamber floor, before the duel. _You wanted this, Warden_. . .

The Mage deliberately released the sword and placed her hand on the ground at her side. Slowly, she cocked her head as she continued to stare coolly into those thundery eyes. She could have been asking him a question, or offering him her neck to strike at, if he wished. The muscles in Loghain's jaw twitched as he swallowed once, quickly. He blinked, and then snatched the Starfang up, turning the blade against a ray of moonlight and peering at it for any sign of the change it had undergone. The Mage rose and stepped to his side so that she could look as well. To her, the Starfang now looked a bit like a lamp of blue crystal that contained a restless fire. As with a lamp, too, the buffeting flames seemed to smoke and dull the crystal's brilliance somewhat.

"It actually makes it a bit less fancy, somehow, doesn't it?" she mused over his shoulder.

"If nothing else," agreed the Warrior, "there is that."

* * *

After supper, she sat by the fire to mend a tear in the short white cloak that she wore over her vestments in cooler weather. Suddenly a shadow fell over her work, and the Mage felt a massive, silent presence at her side, as though a giant sycamore had suddenly sprung out of the ground.

" _Kadan_. I wish to speak with you," it said.

The Mage shut her eyes briefly, and sighed. This was Sten's new way of expressing his displeasure at something she'd done; and while she preferred it to overt insubordination or outright mutiny, she still found these conversations a bit trying. She had an idea about what had incurred his displeasure this time. She had seen him watching Mac Tir clean and examine his new weapon.

"What is it, Sten?" she asked innocently.

"That is not his sword," answered Sten, pointing at Loghain.

The Mage grimaced. She knew that this might be a sticking point with Sten. To the Qunari, a sword was like an extension of the body, as dear to them as any _kadan_ ; and she had sold Loghain's to Levi Dryden. "I know: I made him give it up," she admitted helplessly, "but honestly, did you see it? It was a disgrace for a warrior like him to be carrying such a weapon." Her voice gathered heat. " _Someone_ should have made sure he had a proper sword a long time ago, even if _he_ couldn't be bothered. I would have thought that Anora at least—"

"No. That is not what I meant."

This was another irritating aspect of these conversations with Sten, thought the Mage. There was nearly always a _lesson_ ; and as reluctant as Sten often was to attempt to teach anything to a useless human, the lesson was nearly always worth shutting up and listening to.

" _That_ -" said Sten, indicating the Starfang, whose tracings on its leaflike blade shone softly back at the moon, "-is not _his_ sword."

Deflated, the Mage sighed again. "You're right, Sten," she said resignedly. "It isn't. But it's a _good_ sword, and it'll have to do for now."

The Qunari -her lieutenant, her reluctant guardian and guide- relented. His dour expression indicated that the matter was closed only temporarily, however.

"Don't worry, Sten," the Mage assured him. "We'll keep looking."

"I am not worried."

* * *

They arrived at Orzammar two days later at sunset. There had been no further bandit attacks and, strangely, no sighting of Darkspawn. The Mage felt a little uneasy at this; it seemed to confirm that the Archdemon was indeed gathering its forces for a major -perhaps a final- assault on Ferelden. She still had seen nothing of its movements in her dreams, however; nor had Loghain since his first night as a Grey Warden. And so they continued with their plan.

Predictably, the lack of enemies to kill made things dull for the company as they traveled; as usual, they diverted themselves with rounds of conversation that swirled amongst the various party members like eddies in a pool. At first, Loghain would only offer speech to the dog; then Leliana –touched, the Mage imagined, by the obvious mutual affection that had sprung up between the Warrior and the Mabari—attempted to draw him in to a discussion. This Loghain promptly rebuffed, no doubt because of Leliana's Orlesian upbringing and accent; his reaction immediately piqued the interests of the others, who thereupon all felt the need to question or tease or provoke the new recruit in their turn. The tone of their conversation, however, was no more vicious or antagonistic than it ever got between any of the others. Some of them seemed almost relieved to have some fresh blood in the mix. For his part –though the Mage did have to tell him off once for barking a little too harshly at the Bard—Loghain also behaved himself; and so there was no trouble of a serious nature.

They were greeted warmly by the Orzammar guards as they entered the city. Before they had travelled far across the Commons, they were accosted by a breathless Dwarf with an invitation for the Warden and her companions to dine at the Royal Palace that evening. Though none of the company seemed excited by this prospect, the Mage did not feel able to refuse. She sent the messenger back with as gracious an acceptance as she could muster, and changed their course for the Diamond Quarter.

As they entered the Palace, they were met by a squadron of the King's servants, each of whom latched onto a company member and led him or her away to a private room to freshen up before dinner. Trying to decide whether it would be better to cover her head on such an occasion or leave her scalp exposed to the inevitable polite stares of the nobility, the Mage reflected that she knew as much about operating in high society as she did about running a full-scale military campaign. Judging by their faces at the King's table as they were seated, nearly all of her companions harbored their own sources of discomfort, like inconveniently placed blisters. Of the lot of them, the one who looked the most at ease was Loghain; which was natural, thought the Mage, as he had had more experience than any of them at this sort of thing. Willing herself to look as if she had not spent most of her life either shut up in a tower under guard, away from "normal" society, or living out of a tent in between bouts of wholesale slaughter, the Warden straightened her back, composed her hands Anora-style and waited for the King to make his entrance.

Though she did not regret her decision to back him as Orzammar's next King, the Mage had to confess that she liked Bhelen Aeducan less every time she met him. His face had the smooth, fleshy, unhardened features of someone accustomed to privilege and easy living, while his attitude and bearing were those of a spoiled and pampered princeling who felt entitled to every manner of deference -whether he had actually earned it or not. Yet he also obviously fancied himself a hard, ruthless, dangerous man; and while it was this that had decided the Mage –who needed her chosen Dwarf King to send every available soldier to the surface immediately upon his ascension, even if he had to force them—in his favor, she secretly feared that she had placed a bully on Orzammar's throne. Bhelen clearly enjoyed having the notorious Death Mask on his side, and regaled her during dinner with stories of how he had used her name and reputation to threaten the last of Pyral Harrowmont's followers into giving up any claims of wrongdoing or calls for retribution. The Mage suspected that Bhelen had invited the Grey Wardens to the Palace that evening at least as much to perpetuate their association in the minds of his people as to extend a grateful offer of hospitality.

Indeed, any betrayal by the Wardens' company of discomfort or unfamiliarity with the trappings of high society seemed actually to please King Bhelen rather than earn his contempt. The Mage imagined that if word were to get out in Orzammar that the Wardens were barely-domesticated savages, the level of fear that Bhelen could engender in his followers through his boasts of an alliance with such ferocious beasts could only increase. From her companions' behavior and the reactions of Bhelen and the other nobles present, it seemed likely that word would get out.

Morrigan, the Mage knew, was even more uncomfortable in such a formal setting than she herself, alternately fumbling with her tableware and snapping at her neighbors at table for staring at her or sitting too close. Leliana had the most experience of any of them with courtly manners, but she was accustomed to the exaggerated politeness of Orlesian nobles. The earthiness of the Dwarves stymied her as much as it clearly disgusted Sten (who was further discomfited by his enormous size in relation to their furniture, dinnerware and utensils). On the other hand, Oghren –who, as a Dwarf of the Warrior caste elevated to the nobility when his wife became a Paragon, should have felt right at home—was as awkward as any of them because of his disgraced status as a jilted husband, a drunkard, and a deserter of the Stone. His peers made snide remarks that he countered with increasingly obscene replies and gestures as he plied his jug of ale. Zevran, sitting to Oghren's right, had long since given up trying to charm the noble ladies, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in slumming with a common Elf surfacer. Instead, he concentrated on keeping Oghren well-lubricated with ale and spurred to fresh depths of lewdness with a stream of licentious whisperings that only the Dwarf could hear, but at which he would cackle loudly and answer in a voice audible from the far end of the table.

And so it was that the Mage found herself thanking the Maker for Loghain Mac Tir. As "the other Grey Warden", he had been seated opposite her near the head of the table (the Mage on Bhelen's right hand, Loghain on his left); somehow, however, his long human legs managed never to bump those of his neighbors, nor did he upset their drinks or jog their elbows with his massive armored limbs as Sten did. In addition, his conversation was, if not courtly, then at least natural, confident and well-mannered. He seemed to know quite a bit about Dwarven culture in general and even about the Aeducan family in particular, which the Mage knew carried a lot of weight amongst these people. He questioned the Dwarves directly but politely about the state of affairs in Orzammar, accepted whatever answers they chose to give, and did not turn up his nose at their food or their lichen ale. Watching him, the Mage felt herself relax somewhat.

Perversely, however, the King seemed least pleased with Loghain's behavior of all the Wardens' company. He obviously found Loghain's familiar tone (which, though respectful, lacked any hint of deference or awe) inappropriate; and he positively bristled when, towards the end of the meal, Loghain produced his map from a pouch at his belt and attempted to discuss possible strategies for the Dwarven army in the surface campaign. Looking askance at the Mage, Bhelen wondered with a snigger how advisable it would be for him to take strategic advice from a general whose last campaign had resulted in the death of his King -at which point he confessed, as an aside, to considerable surprise in finding that said general still lived.

Loghain did not quite flush at this, but the purple shadows under his eyes and along his cheeks deepened, and the Mage saw that flicker of fire in his countenance for an instant before it was damped. He grew very still in his chair, facing forward without expression or any indication that he had heard the King's remark. His commanding officer, however, suddenly found herself on her feet, leveling Bhelen Aeducan with a gaze as icy and sharp as the Starfang. If, as was evident, she said to him, his Majesty recognized who this man was, then he should also recognize immediately why the Grey Warden could not deprive herself or Ferelden of his services, once offered. She then begged that she and her companions be excused from the table, claiming a long journey and an early start in the morning. The King granted her request immediately and unabashedly, insisting that they stop the night in the rooms to which they had been shown when they first arrived at the Palace. He would not hear, he said, of the Grey Warden being forced to lodge anywhere else in Orzammar. The Mage, concluding the dance of manners with a bow, accepted the King's favor and allowed herself to be led away by yet another servant. Though his complexion calmed somewhat, Loghain's expression did not alter throughout the exchange. The Mage could not tell if he was grateful for her outburst, or amused, or resentful at her presumption that he needed her to defend him, or disapproving of her breach of composure (a breach his daughter would never have committed). His eyes did not meet hers.

As they separated in the halls, Dog gave his mistress a glance and then padded after Loghain, no doubt seeking some post-prandial head-scratches as had already become his habit. Elsewhere in the corridor, the Mage heard Oghren mutter something about having his own sodding house to sleep in. He and Zevran brushed off their attendants and headed for the exit, most likely bound for Tapster's Tavern in the Commons. It was possible that neither Oghren nor Zevran would return to the Palace that night, though in whose house the Elf would end up sleeping was anyone's guess. Leliana hesitated for a moment before following them. She would be back, the Mage knew. Though she could never resist the opportunity to hear or perform a song or tale, she also would not be apart from the Warden for long. By that time, however, the Mabari would have returned to his mistress's side and she would be sleeping, or trying to, alone in a stone room on a maddeningly soft bed.

* * *

Naturally, the golem had not been invited to the Palace; just as naturally, Shale noted her exclusion but was more than content to be left outside. Next morning, they went to collect her from one of her usual Orzammar haunts, which were anywhere she could reasonably blend in with the stone and then suddenly pop out at random Dwarves as they passed. However, she could not be found in any of them. Finally the Mage sent the Mabari –always the best of anyone at finding and fetching things, even in the most unlikely places—to locate her. She did not expect Dog to "fetch" the golem, but he soon found where she lurked and, bouncing and wagging his rump, led the company there. It turned out that Shale was standing quite conspicuously just outside the entrance to the Deep Roads. She had been waiting for them.

"I should have known," said the Mage wryly.

"It should have," observed Shale.

And with that, they trooped through the hole in the rock, and were back in the Deep Roads once again.


	5. The Deep Roads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This chapter contains some of Hespith's lines from the "A Paragon of Her Kind" treaty quest in Dragon Age: Origins. Those lines are Bioware's; the rest are mine._

The Warden sympathized with her followers' objections to the Deep Roads. They were hot and stuffy, the pervasive fumes of burning lava producing a scum of sweat that clung to the skin. Though the Arcane Shield that encased her at all times filtered out all but the strongest smells, even the Mage sometimes choked on the stale air that tasted as though it had passed to her through the lungs and pores of generations upon generations of Darkspawn. It also could not be denied that most of the company had passed some of the more horrific moments of their lives in these caverns and passages. When the stone closed in around them, they felt the weight of the mountains under which they crept, and strained their senses at every tunnel's bend to detect the slightest stir of an enemy from the other side. When they passed from tunnel into cavern or into one of the old Dwarven highways or settlements, they felt naked and exposed. At some points during their previous journey here, they had taken to traveling in a circular formation: the Mage leading, the Warriors behind her facing each in a different direction, and Morrigan and the rogues inside the protective ring, looking up. It had slowed their progress somewhat, and Sten had grumbled, but even he had seemed to feel safer. On a couple of occasions they had camped in open bedrolls right in the middle of the road, finding nowhere that felt safe enough to pitch a tent, and preferring to be able to see the Darkspawn when they came –which they did, always.

Despite this –or even, in a way, because of it—the Mage could also understand why the Grey Wardens were called to this place when they felt their end approaching, how Dwarves desperate enough to throw their lives away could choose the Legion and the Deep Roads rather than the surface. It was partially that the Deep Roads seemed to her almost like an earthly version of the Fade –the weird landscape both familiar, monotonous, and at the same time alien and ever-changing; the possibility of the unexpected or the bizarre -encounters sometimes valuable, sometimes intimate, sometimes perilous. But there was more to it than that. It was the crack in the mountain's heart that might be the work of Dwarves, Darkspawn, or nature and time, with the only way to find out being to follow each new tunnel to its end. It was the discovery of ancient history, great and small: a highway, a town, a house, a ring, an old letter. It was the knowledge –a ceaseless shiver in the blood- that the ancient kingdom, while abandoned by the Dwarves, was by no means unoccupied. It was the promise of sudden, violent death: mostly others', eventually yours.

Perhaps Loghain felt something similar. As the highway to Caridin's Cross opened up, he left the rear of the pack and resumed his place behind the Mage's right hand. She could hear his quick footsteps, feel him tensed, informed with a watchful predation, like a great cat on the prowl. Shortly after they took to the highway, she was also startled to hear the rustle and flap of a parchment opening behind her. She turned to see that Mac Tir was indeed, once again holding a map –though where in Ferelden he had managed to obtain a map of the Deep Roads, the Warden could not guess. Even the Dwarves barely knew the location or landmarks of their lost thaigs. Still, there he was, trotting along with his sharp nose alternately buried in the map or pointing at signposts, nodding or muttering to himself as the parchment agreed, or not, with what he saw.

As they approached Caridin's Cross, however, he put the map away and reached for his sword. He did not have long to wait. At the first turning, a pack of Deepstalkers appeared to rise out of the earth beneath their feet. Their squeaks were soon drowned out by the pounding of Shale's fists on the rock and the excited barking of Dog, who pounced among them as though they were enormous rats. Suddenly a deep, guttural _hoo-hoo-hoo_ sounded in their ears: Darkspawn had found them. The Mage saw Loghain freeze in the act of slamming a Deepstalker into the ground with his shield. He turned his head this way and that in the darkness, his eyes wide -feeling, she knew, his new senses working for the first time. It was the creeping sensation of knowing _them_ in his blood; feeling the strange blood in him awakening, calling to them. She saw the understanding in his eyes -perhaps the final understanding of what it meant to be a Grey Warden. As the last of the Deepstalkers in the passage succumbed he turned to his commander, as if for confirmation that what he was experiencing was real.

The Mage nodded once, then lifted her chin in the direction from which she knew the Hurlock that had laughed was approaching. She raised three fingers to indicate that she had sensed two other Darkspawn with it. The Champion returned the nod and, facing the oncoming enemy, settled into the slight crouch that the Mage recognized as preceding his legendary charge. His feet began a rocking, almost a pawing motion where he stood, once again for all the world as though he was a cat preparing to launch itself at a mouse. Even in the stifling heat, the Mage felt a shiver up her back. Seconds later, the Hurlock's helm appeared above a sharp rise where the tunnel, behind it, bore even further underground. A sharp _spang_ sounded behind the Mage, and the Hurlock toppled backwards with one of Leliana's arrows in its eye. Two Genlock archers rushed up after it, and froze at the top of the ridge, encased in ice from Morrigan's staff. Before they could thaw, Loghain's shield had shattered one of them and his shoulder had heaved the other back out of sight down the hill. He followed to finish it off, the Mabari bounding after him. They returned in a moment, both bloody and bearing gifts –the war dog a short bow, the Warrior a mean-looking dagger that he presented to the Warden with a deliberate flourish.

As they continued along the passage, the Mage detected an extra bounce in the Champion's step, a thrumming energy radiating from his spot in their formation that infected the entire party. She did not turn, but the Mage knew that if she looked at Loghain she would see that summer firestorm brewing again. The hearts of the others had quickened, as well –in some cases, despite their owners' reluctance to share the Warrior's enthusiasm. Morrigan broke the silence first.

"So, Loghain Mac Tir:," she drawled, "how does it feel to be a Grey Warden, after all the time and effort you spent trying to bring down the last of their order? Is it all you imagined?" she asked teasingly. "Creeping through vermin-infested tunnels? Brawling with thugs and Darkspawn mobs, then looting their corpses?"

"How I feel, Madam, has no bearing on the matter," he replied. "I was at the Grey Wardens' mercy, and instead of killing me they elected to make me one of them. I now do as they do, or as I am bid."

"I should imagine this to be a fate worse than death, for an _honorable_ warrior such as yourself," prodded the Witch.

Loghain said nothing, but set his jaw and his eyes on the road ahead. The Mage looked back at his stubborn, determined face, and saw in her mind the Champion's hand on the Landsmeet chamber floor, limp and seemingly lifeless at first, but then bracing against the flagstones, the dark head slowly rising. . .

 _A fate worse than death_ , she thought, _or one more chance to get up and keep fighting_. A lump inexplicably formed in her throat. She swallowed it, frowning.

"Honorable as our Warrior may be," she tossed back, "he is above all a pragmatist, as he'll be the first to inform you. I fully expect him to become as skilled a looter of corpses as any Grey Warden –perhaps better even than you, Morrigan." She smiled at the Witch, who scowled at being interrupted in her fun.

"Speaking of loot," broke in Loghain, "I thought we were supposed to be finding me a helmet; or had you already forgotten? I'm not wearing anything off these Darkspawn, if that was your idea. Or do you have a shop down here as well?"

"There is other gear to be found in the Deep Roads besides that of the Darkspawn," answered the Mage. "Some of it is very good –though you may have to get it adjusted by one of the smiths in Orzammar before you can wear it." She indicated Sten, whose massive frame was clad in armor of a design normally favored by the Dwarven Legion of the Dead.

"'Adjusted' –or stretched –or completely reconstructed; yes, I see that," observed Loghain. "I've been wondering, Qunari: how many dead Legionnaires did it take to cover you?"

"Two," answered Sten, and frowned. "And a half," he added.

"But no, we have no shops down here," concluded the Mage.

"There is the mad Dwarf," interjected Shale.

"Ruck?" Oghren spat in disgust. "That Darkspawn-eater?"

The golem shrugged. "The twisted Dwarf that lives in the thaig with all the spiders," she said. "It babbles and whines and pretends to be dead. I don't recall its name."

Loghain was incredulous. "A Dwarf. . . _lives_ here?"

"If you can call it that," sneered Morrigan.

The Mage shook her head sadly. "And he doesn't have a shop, really –just a collection of found and looted objects such as we have."

"Well, we should pay him a visit, then," said Loghain. "Does he keep regular business hours, do you think, or does he trade only by appointment?"

"I don't—" began the Mage, and then stopped. The truth was, she had no desire to visit the pathetic creature that was once a Dwarf named Ruck. However, since he did "live" in Ortan Thaig, he had had more opportunities than anyone of collecting the best loot to be had in that area –if he could be trusted to know leather and armor plating from bat wings and beetle casings, that was. She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed at her aching eyes, wincing. "I wouldn't rely on Ruck as a supplier, if I were you," she said. "If we haven't found anything by the time we've reached his –neighborhood- we can look in on him, just to say that we've looked. But prepare to be disappointed."

"On the contrary; I can't wait," smirked Mac Tir. "I only hope there isn't a crowd."

* * *

A mere three Darkspawn was a rarity in the Deep Roads, the Mage knew; they were usually found in mobs at least twice that size. Over the course of their last journey through the old Dwarf kingdom, her company had arrived at a reliable system of actions for dealing with these. The Mage, sensing the mob from a greater distance than the others, would put as many of the enemy to sleep as possible; once they were immobilized, she could pick out the strongest of them to further incapacitate with spells of paralysis, disorientation, weakness, or fear. Next, she would send them a tempest, a localized electrical storm that sapped their health and stamina with repeated jolts over a wide area. By this time, her Warriors and the knife-wielding Rogue, Zevran –protected from the storm with charms and elixirs against lightning damage—would have reached the mob, and would begin to dispatch the now-weakened enemy. If any managed to break away and approach the Warden commander, they would be met by Leliana's arrows, Morrigan's freezing spells and the Mage's own, more concentrated bolts of lightning. On the whole, this system had worked well for them. Perhaps it grew a bit tedious over many repetitions, but tedium was not necessarily a bad thing in the Deep Roads.

When she first felt the presence of a sizable group of Darkspawn this time, then, she reacted instinctively and without paying much attention to her companions. There were no enemies of any particular strength in this mob, she could tell; so immediately after sending them to sleep she turned her focus away from the "real" world, into the Fade, to draw its power, will it into the tempest. As the storm erupted from her staff, her focus flew out with it, back into the chamber of the Deep Roads in which she and her companions stood. Lightning crackled and flared, making the air around it smoke and sizzle –over a pile of Darkspawn corpses. The Mage blinked. There was no sign of life where a troop of Genlocks had just been standing. However, there was Loghain, walking back to the group with Dog at his side. The Starfang and Dog's muzzle dripped with fresh blood. The Warrior, seeing the Mage's puzzled look, turned and watched the sparks fly for a moment.

"Pretty," he observed.

The next mob was camped at the bottom of another hill. This time, the Mage attended more closely. As the sleeping spell descended, a streak of silverite and a rush of brown fur shot down the slope. Amongst a number of grunts, this lot included an Ogre, which she paralyzed, and a Hurlock Emissary, which she disoriented and then hexed so that the lightning she was about to cast would do extra damage to it and the grunts surrounding it. As before, she reached into the Fade, preparing the tempest; but just before she released it, she checked, peering at the scene of battle. The last of the grunts was shivering out its life between the Mabari's jaws; the war dog dropped the corpse and leaped over it to overwhelm the Emissary where it stood in a daze. The Ogre, still paralyzed, was spouting blood from several wounds against which it had been unable to defend; just as it began to twitch, Loghain planted a boot on its bent knee, launched himself at the creature's face, and jammed the Starfang in its heart. The Mage saw the Ogre's head snap back with a dying scream, saw its eyes widen as it looked into those of the Champion, who rode its toppling form all the way to the ground. He appeared to be laughing.

The storm, pulsing at the end of the Warden's staff, was never unleashed. Loghain picked himself up off the cavern floor, swatted the dog on the rump and trotted back up the hill to his commanding officer, who was sauntering down with the others to do her part in the post-battle looting. They met halfway up the slope and stood facing each other, the Warrior now puffing a little. The Mage looked past Loghain at the carnage, then back at his blood-streaked face. She lifted an eyebrow.

"Huh," she said.

The Mage proceeded down the hill. A soft, dry chuckle drifted after her. The smile she had been biting back broke through. The dog, from the sound of things, was receiving some cheese from Loghain as a reward.

And so it went. The Grey Wardens swept through the Deep Roads like a plague, spurred on by the Hero of River Dane and his charge. As she watched wave after wave of Darkspawn knocked down –by his shield, his body, or just by sheer terror as he bore down on them—the Mage shook her head and thanked the Maker, the Prophet, the Paragons, and all the gods of Elvhenan that her paralyzing spell had held him in the Landsmeet duel. If she had had to stand up to that charge, she would be dead. Loghain would certainly never have stopped his onslaught and spared her. Even as his enemies hit the ground the Starfang flashed and sang as it sliced through their flesh, the flames now embedded in the blade adding a rumbling note as of a distant furnace to the clanging metal. Most of the Darkspawn were dead before they had a chance to get back on their feet. Those strong enough to put up a fight the Mage hexed, weakened, disoriented or paralyzed; Loghain laughed to see them. The Mage had never quite understood the Darkspawn's tendency to laugh in battle, even as they were being slaughtered. Loghain, obviously, did; the walls of the Deep Roads echoed with the blasts of his derision.

Not that he didn't do his share of cursing at his enemies, as well. Between his taunts and mocking laughter, his snarls and shouts of anger, and the wordless grunts and screams of combat, Loghain's voice was a near constant throughout every battle. Even when swarmed by the horde or blocked from sight by their companions, the Warden always knew exactly where her Champion was. He was truly silenced in combat only once: when the Mage, spotting a cluster of Hurlock Emissaries and Alphas, hurled the lot of them into the Waking Nightmare. Loghain, barreling towards them with Dog at his side, skidded to a halt as their faces and bodies grew rigid with horror, their eyes fixed on some awful apparition only they could see. He turned, his eyes –dark with recognition and remembrance—finding the Mage's. She looked at the monsters writhing in mindless fear, and her mouth twisted guiltily for a second. Then she looked back at Loghain and shrugged. The Warrior's eyebrows were briefly taken aback; then he chuckled, shrugged his acceptance and turned back to the fight. Facing the Hurlocks, he let loose a bloodcurdling yell that caused them to squeak like Deepstalkers. Dog followed with a volley of deep-throated barks, teeth bared to the gullet. Two of the Alphas fell to their knees, their weapons sliding from their nerveless hands. Loghain's chuckle grew to a fresh sirocco of laughter as he and the Starfang waded in.

The Mabari was obviously delighted to have such a comrade in war. Somehow, he and Loghain appeared to have begun a game, or a contest, to see how many Darkspawn they could each kill in the shortest amount of time. There was no restraint, no order in the way they hurled themselves at the enemy, the old Warrior keeping pace with the war dog and both outdistancing the rest of the company by lengths. Once, still in Caridin's Cross, they hit a tripwire that Darkspawn had stretched across the road. They were so far ahead of the others that Leliana barely had time to gasp and cry out, "Look—" before Loghain and the Mabari were flipped simultaneously onto their backs. The wire was fused to barrels planted on either side of the road; as they crashed into it both barrels exploded. A wash of flame rolled over the prone figures. Loghain buried his helmetless head under his arms, cursing; Dog's yelps brought the Mage's heart to her mouth. As the conflagration died, the Warden heard titters from the rubble and debris behind the barrels. The Genlock rogues who had set the trap had evidently found the spectacle extremely funny –until their victims began to stir. One black and one brown head snapped up as their eyes pierced the smoke for the source of the giggles. When they spotted the Genlocks, the Mage could swear she heard the Warrior growling as well as the Mabari. The Genlocks broke cover and scampered for an opening in the far wall, shrieking in dismay. Loghain and the dog got to their feet, shook themselves, and roared after them. Soon they were lost to sight, except for the flicker of fire on the tunnel walls that was the Starfang finding its mark.

" _This_ is Ferelden's great general?" scoffed Morrigan as the rest of the company began to follow. The Mage shook her head until she thought it might roll off.

 _Whatever else he is_ , she thought, _he's a soldier who's been spoiling for a good fight since Ostagar._

"But they are too far ahead!" fretted Leliana. "What if they meet something else in there? What if they need healing?"

"What if they just keep going, and we never see them again?" offered Morrigan hopefully.

This last had also occurred to the Mage, until she realized that whatever race Loghain and the dog were running, they did not consider it finished until they had reported back to their commander. No matter how far afield they strayed to chase down the last of their immediate opponents, they always returned –always at the same jog-trot, the Warrior tossing bits of cheese to the Mabari, who caught them on the run and grinned as he gulped them down. She did, however, still worry about them accidentally running into a second mob while pursuing the remnants of a first, and being too far away for any of their companions to help. For this reason she began to send the Rogues ahead as invisible scouts, just to get a feel of the Darkspawn population of a general area before setting the Cannonball Twins (as the Mage, based on an observation made by Sten, had begun to call them) loose to play.

Leliana came back from one of these scouting expeditions shaking her head. She had spotted the largest gathering of Darkspawn yet –including at least three Hurlock Alphas, an Ogre, a Genlock Emissary and a troop of archers. They were scattered over a wide area on the other side of the stone bridge behind which the company was resting.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Loghain slapped his thighs and stood up, whistling to his playmate.

The Mage halted him with an upraised hand. "She says the bridge is full of traps."

His eyes raked the near side of the arch, up and down. "I don't see them."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? You haven't charged through any of them yet," hissed the Mage. Morrigan snorted. "But Leliana says that there are far too many of them on that bridge," continued the Warden. "Even you'd be in bits before you reached the other side. Oi." This last was to the dog, who with selective canine hearing had decided to take "charge" as an order and was straining to be off _._

"I don't believe 'Oi' is an accepted military command, Warden," suggested Mac Tir.

"Well, Dog responds to it," said the Mage, patting the Mabari on the head, "because he's a _good_ boy who does as he's asked, aren't you?" Dog grinned helplessly at Loghain and tried to bark his agreement as softly as possible. "Shhh. . ." soothed the Mage, her hands on the dog's head calming him, holding him. "Yes. He's a good boy who will stay quiet and let Leliana disable all these traps without getting into danger. And he'll keep his friend quiet, too, won't he?" She grasped the dog's muzzle and brought his eyes to meet hers. They both looked at Loghain, who ground out a sigh and allowed himself to plod behind Leliana as she moved up the slope, disarming leghold traps every few feet.

When she reached the top of the arch, Leliana disappeared under her cloak of Stealth and moved forward even more slowly than before. Zevran also slipped out of sight and headed for the other side, to put the assassin's Mark of Death on as many of the elite enemy as possible before they were discovered. The others kept just out of view below the crest of the bridge, the Mage and Loghain farthest back of all, lest their taint give them away. The dog pressed up against his friend's flank, eager to resume their game. The Mage could see Loghain's eyes glitter in the shadows as he scratched under Dog's jaw. He leaned over the war hound's ear and said in a stage whisper that he happened to know that the Warden carried Mabari Crunch treats in her pack, especially for _good_ boys who Hold and let Orlesian Bards disable traps on bridges.

Naturally, the Mabari then swarmed over his mistress, pushing his nose into every corner of the Mage's pack and all of her pockets to seek out his reward. Through his snufflings and her grunts of effort as she fought to stay upright, she could hear Loghain chuckling with his hand over his mouth. She grit her teeth, planted her feet and commanded the dog silently to sit. Unslinging her pack, she set it on the ground and began to rummage through it, hoping to Andraste that she would find something in there to appease her large and pushy friend. To her surprise, she found two pieces of Mabari Crunch, slightly crumbled, in one corner of a pocket; some merchant must have slipped them in with a purchase as a courtesy. Dog's face broke into a grin when he saw them. He happily snapped up the piece she tossed into his maw. Then she turned and heaved the other treat at his comrade.

"Good boy," she said to Loghain.

As she turned back around, the Mage could feel the Twins' restraints beginning to slip. There was a sharp snap behind her as Loghain bit into the dog biscuit. His mirth built up like a slow roll of thunder. The rocking beat of his feet announced the impending charge. The Mabari bounced in circles around the Warrior, urging him up the slope. The thunder broke; the harsh echoes of Loghain's laughter filled the chamber. The frantic cries and incensed bellows of startled Darkspawn rose to meet them. Leliana came flying back over the arch, shrugging her bow loose from her shoulder. The Warden signaled the attack, sending everyone over the top before her. There was a terrific clash of arms, a singing of bowstrings, a crackle of ice from Morrigan's staff, a pounding and shaking as Shale and the Ogre tore up large pieces of earth and threw them at each other.

Oghren was wheezing and cackling as he churned past the Mage on his way to a clump of Genlocks. "I _like_ this crazy son of a Nug-humper!" he yelled over the din.

The Warden strode to the top of the bridge and raised her staff; it flashed white in the darkness as she readied it for her first spell. Its rays bounced off her white limbs and vestments and she shone, clear as a diamond and cold as the moon, her face a bloody skull with eyes like shards of starmetal. The Darkspawn saw her and gibbered; their enemies cheered and pressed the attack. Lightning fell, the dog howled, Leliana sang, the Darkspawn despaired and died. Any of the creatures that managed to revive and limp back to their strongholds, or that had been clever enough to hide in the cracks before the battle began, would have a new tale to pass amongst the hordes –the White Terror was back in the Deep Roads, and she had brought an accomplice: the Black Scorn.

* * *

They reached Ortan Thaig without finding a suitable helmet for Loghain; reluctantly, the Mage prepared to pay a call on the Dwarf, Ruck.

"Make sure we have something shiny to trade. He likes shiny things," she said.

Everyone searched their packs for something that they wanted neither to keep nor to donate to the Warden's army. Finally Zevran handed over a golden rope necklace.

"Normally, when I give jewelry to a lady," he remarked, "I would prefer to see it adorning her lovely neck. However, if the Warden prefers to use it to procure a covering for our Warrior's head—"

". . .then it will have done a much greater service toward beautifying this company," finished Morrigan. Loghain smirked at the Witch and bowed.

They proceeded down the stretch of highway onto which the tunnel opened that led to the deserted Ortan village and Ruck's campsite. The highway itself was blocked, just past the tunnel's entrance, by a fall of rock and sand a couple of stories high. As she turned into the passage, the Mage looked back to see Loghain standing with his hands on his hips, scowling at the barrier as though demanding that it explain itself. After a moment he dug into the pouch at his belt for his map, flipping quickly through the parchment for the appropriate panel. The Mage walked over to him and peered at the inked version of Ortan Thaig, in which the highway on which they stood continued unbroken across its length. Loghain's eyebrows were disappointed, his eyes thoughtful.

"Someone's map needs updating," suggested the Mage.

"Yes."

Ruck was not at home. They poked around his campsite but found nothing but broken bits of armor and other items from the nearby village, most unidentifiable and all useless. They shook their heads and moved on; Loghain alone among them expressed regret at having missed him.

An icy river divided the two halves of Ortan Thaig; as they crossed one of the bridges that spanned it, they heard someone screaming. The noise was coming from the other side. Hurrying across, they found Ruck caught in a spider's cocoon. He was suspended several feet off the ground, an arm and a leg flailing, his other limbs bound tight to his side. The spider's threads had not covered his face but bound it back, so that the skin stretched painfully over his contorted features and around his bulging eyes. Evidently, the monsters did not kill their meat by suffocating it –that, thought the Mage, or even these creatures had thought better of involving themselves with the Dwarf's corrupted flesh. She aimed her staff at the spot where the web joined the chamber's ceiling, and severed the connection with a single bolt. Leliana caught Ruck as he fell; no one else moved to touch him. Two spiders swarmed out in protest from cracks in the wall; Shale and Oghren dealt with these while Leliana used her dagger to cut Ruck free of his bonds.

As he got to his feet, the Dwarf made a twisted bow at the Bard and then at the Warden. "Pretty lady has returned –has saved Ruck," he moaned. "Ruck –saw shiny worms—up there," he explained, pointing at the ceiling, where various iridescent insects winked from their prisons in the spiders' webs. "He climbed –and was caught. Then the creepy crawlies came." He shuddered; Oghren and Shale both uttered _pah_ s of disgust; Loghain frowned. Ruck turned to the newcomer and sniffed. His expression grew intimate.

"Pretty lady has brought a new friend," he whispered. "Friend has eyes like bright steel. Eyes –pierce Ruck." He shut his own eyes and craned his neck toward Loghain, scanning him almost like a blind man entering a strange room. He sniffed again. "The blood –runs fresh in this friend. Not yet controlled. Friend with the fierce eyes –he still sees _him_ , yes?" Ruck looked with repellent yearning at Loghain's face. "The Beautiful One –the Lord of the Dark. New friend sees him, yes? Hears his voice? Ruck has not heard it –the voice of the Beautiful One –in so long—" He reached out suddenly and grasped Loghain's wrist, pulling himself closer, drinking in the fresh taint. His eyes fluttered as in a swoon.

Loghain yanked his arm free and bared his teeth. "All I see and hear is a rabid beast that should be put out of its misery," he snarled.

"No!" shrieked Ruck. "Eyes –hurt Ruck! Find Ruck! No! They will not! Ruck hides! Never find him!" He scampered off into a crack in the far wall and disappeared. His sobs, muffled – _no! no! never_ —echoed through the chamber.

"Care to chase after him?" offered the Mage, extending an arm in the direction the Dwarf had fled.

"Only to discover that all he's got to sell are spiders' eggs and pickled Darkspawn knuckles? No thank you," snorted Mac Tir. "Irritating as I find it, I must accept that you are once again correct in your assessment, Warden. We will do just as well to fend for ourselves."

"Dog will find us something, won't you, boy?" said the Mage. The Mabari looked lovingly at his playmate and gave a single bark. Loghain nodded, and the party moved on.

"So the new Grey Warden's head remains exposed to its enemies," observed Shale as they walked. As usual, she was the last of the companions to speak directly to a newcomer. Apparently she had at last accepted the fact that Loghain would not die or go away anytime soon. "If I were the Darkspawn, I would take the advantage and crush it immediately. Clearly, they are beings of limited intelligence."

It was also not surprising when Loghain failed to recognize that this was Shale's way of speaking to people. Though he had obviously heard the remark, he continued on his way without acknowledging it.

"She's talking to you, you know," the Mage prompted him at length.

Loghain started, and blinked. "'She?'" he repeated. "This golem is a 'she'?" He turned in his tracks and walked backwards, peering at the golem, up and down. "How can you tell?" he asked.

The Mage shrugged. "We met the one who crafted her and he informed us. Apparently, she was once a Dwarf woman called Shale."

"Huh. Well, I _am_ a man called Loghain."

Morrigan snorted. "If you can actually get her to call you by your name," she said, "I will kiss the next Deepstalker that comes up out of the ground."

There was a pause as the entire company gradually came to a halt. Several heads turned almost as one to look expectantly at Shale, whose stony face appeared nonplussed for several seconds as she considered this proposal.

"The Swamp Witch has put me in a peculiar position," she mused. "Either I break a long-standing habit, or it wins its silly little wager." The golem deliberated for another few seconds. "However," she continued finally, "I refuse to be manipulated even for such a worthy cause. Also, I would probably find the penalty at least as disgusting to witness as it would to perform." She resumed her pace; disappointed, the others fell back in with her.

"Hah! 'The Swamp Witch': excellent," chortled Mac Tir. "Perhaps being 'the new Grey Warden' is not so bad. And what does 'she' call the rest of you?"

"I am 'the Painted Elf'," offered Zevran.

"I am the Qunari," said Sten.

"Hmm. . ." mused Loghain. "Boring, but at least consistent. _I_ will not be the 'new' Grey Warden forever. What will you call me then?" he asked Shale. "'The old Grey Warden?' You may as well call me that now, as I am far older than Milady over there."

"I would never have thought that I might encounter someone even more irritating than the previous other Grey Warden," answered the golem. "But my time spent in that one's company is beginning to seem like a blissful retreat."

They were interrupted by a pack of spiders that seemed to be driven by a trio of Hurlocks like war hounds, which the Mage found a somewhat disturbing development. These were quickly dispatched, however, and the company proceeded on its way. Loghain was unusually silent throughout this exchange. When they resumed their travelling formation, he left the Mage's right hand and took up a spot next to Shale, in order to continue their conversation.

"How about 'the Braided Warrior?'" he suggested. "That works."

"Appropriately descriptive," agreed Shale, "but not nearly insulting enough."

"Oh, well, if it's insults you're looking for, why not 'the Deserter', or 'the King-killer'?"

"Does it think of itself as either of these things?"

"No," said Loghain, "but they are common titles given me by my enemies."

"The Grey Warden has determined that we are no longer enemies. Therefore, those titles do not apply. I'm afraid it will have to acquire new ones."

"I see," said Loghain. "Perhaps I should consult my merciful new ally." He addressed the head of the group in mock supplication. "Oh, Blessed Redeemer," he sang out, "have you any new titles to give me?"

Surely, thought the Mage, the last part of her that she would have expected to ache as a result of recruiting Loghain Mac Tir was her cheeks.

"Not yet, Damned Nuisance," she called back. "But as soon as I come up with any, I'll tell you."

* * *

That night, they camped in the road between Ortan Thaig and the Dead Trenches. With no actual shelter available, they instead opted for as much visibility as possible; therefore, they chose an open stretch of highway that ran straight for several yards in both directions, with no breaks in the walls. In addition, their camp was well-lit by a stream of lava that flowed closer to the road than usual. This way, any enemies would have to approach them from the road and would be spotted well in advance by whoever was on watch.

The Mage awoke suddenly after only a couple of hours of sleep. Something was making a thin scratching noise close by. She sat up, pressed her fingers to her eyes for a second and then looked around. Loghain, whose turn it was to watch along with the Mabari, had spread a square of armor padding and a scrap of leather over a block of stone to make a kind of desk. He had spread his map over it and was actually updating the section on Ortan Thaig, using a small quill and a vial of ink that he must have stowed in his pack in Denerim. It was the quill that had made the scratching noise. His hand was still for the moment, though, as Loghain stared into an unseeable distance. The Mage knew that he was visualizing the thaig as it had been that day. He exhaled; the furrow between his brows relaxed. His head bent once again over his work. He rubbed the thumb holding the quill along his nose, leaving a streak of ink there.

"Sorry to disturb," he said quietly without looking up.

The Mage smiled. She suddenly had a vision of the Teyrn in his study, or in a private library at his estate in Gwaren. _He has a large desk covered in leather_ , she thought, _which makes a smooth surface for writing. Maps and scrolls and old histories are spread out around him, which he consults in turn and double checks, making notes_. _There is a drink at his elbow and a small fire that he tends himself. The smudge on his nose goes undetected for hours_.

She noted that in addition to the fall of rock that now blocked the Ortan highway, he had also marked the final resting place of an Elven warrior who had fought and died amongst the Legion of the Dead, and who had been honored in death with a special citation on his grave. Loghain had made some notes in the margin about this warrior and the sword they had recovered from the Darkspawn. There were other, older notes on the map as well. Suddenly the Mage gasped, quickly covering her mouth before she woke any of the others. She had just recognized that Loghain's handwriting and that of the older notes was the same; in addition, the lines that marked the highway's new barrier and added the passage to the warrior's gravesite blended in perfectly with those of the original features.

"You've been here before," she said wonderingly.

The dark head rose at this. Mac Tir gave the Warden a brief, flat look, then turned back to his map. He nodded once. "A long time ago," he said. The quill resumed its scratching.

* * *

They entered the Dead Trenches cautiously. The Rogues went first, before the others had even turned the corner that brought them in sight of the bridge to Bownammar. The Mage would have preferred to go with them, but she and the other Warden would put them all in danger just by their presence, even if they could mask themselves from sight. Leliana and Zevran came back to report that the area around the bridge was empty as far as they could see, though many Darkspawn were gathered under it, far below. It was as good news as the Mage could have hoped for. Still, they proceeded slowly, clinging to the far wall and stealing continual glances to all sides, including at the ceiling. Loghain would have stridden down the middle of the path as usual, but the Mage waved him back. Dog needed no such warning; he knew what they feared.

"This is where we saw the Archdemon before," explained the Mage in a whisper.

"You _saw_ it?" demanded Loghain. "As in all of you? It wasn't a dream?"

"It was a big sodding dragon-thing that spewed purple flames all over this valley," said Oghren. "The Elf here had to run back to camp and change his underthings, heheh."

"Even _if_ I were inclined to flee," countered Zevran, "I would have been unable to move, as the Dwarf required my support to stand upright. I could not leave him. It would have been most unseemly for a member of the Grey Wardens' company to be seen fainting dead away."

"I was _drunk_ , you schist-sucker."

Mac Tir was frowning. "There should be an outpost of the Legion holding this bridge," he said. "Don't tell me they were cut down; that would be a great shame." Oghren eyed him appreciatively.

The Mage shook her head. "They have joined our armies on the surface," she said. "They should be in Redcliffe by now."

"This would be your doing, I imagine."

She took his penetrating stare as one of disapproval. "If the Archdemon launches the horde from this spot, as seems likely," she argued, "then they _would_ have been cut down. At least with the rest of the army, they have a chance."

"It would take something quite extraordinary," said Loghain quietly, "to convince the Legion of the Dead to leave their posts."

"I would call a Blight extraordinary," she answered.

Loghain continued to stare at her. His eyebrows did not seem to know how to act, or how to process whatever he was thinking. After a moment he blinked twice, shook his head and turned away, long nostrils flaring. His mouth was a thin line, its corners pulled down. The Mage was at a loss as to what might be troubling him, or at whom his frustration was directed.

They crossed the bridge without incident, glancing down only briefly at the lights of the assembling Darkspawn horde below. When they had passed the fortress doors on the left and entered the first set of tunnels, they relaxed and began to breathe again. Loghain noticed that they no longer looked up.

"You don't think the Archdemon might be lurking in one of these caverns?" he asked.

Everyone except the dog shook his or her head. "Too big," they answered.

"Huh," said Loghain.

Though they saw a near-continuous stream of Darkspawn along the valley floors whenever the path led them over a bridge, the upper levels of the Dead Trenches remained largely clear of the enemy. They did discover a forge, in which Loghain and the dog "detected" another exploding trap, and which was further protected by several ranks of Darkspawn. The forge master, it turned out, had wielded a maul that made Oghren drop his flask in mid-gulp, staring. He reached for it with both hands like a greedy child.

"We're not. . .eh, thinking of selling this, are we?" he asked, leering at the massive weapon.

"Help yourself," said the Warden.

Nothing else of note occurred, until they turned a corner and saw the first gobbets of raw flesh on the floor. The Mage drew a long breath. Instinctively her eyes found Leliana and Morrigan; the two other women were looking at her, their expressions akin. They were back in the breeding grounds.

They continued down the passage. Flayed bones and rotting meat appeared at every turn –lining the floors, plastered against the walls, piled in corners.

Suddenly the Mage believed she heard it again, the voice that had followed them: " _First day they come, and catch everyone. . ._ "

"What in the Maker's name happened here?" wondered Loghain aloud.

The Mage gazed sorrowfully at the scraps of flesh that had once been a house of Dwarves. "' _Second day, they beat us, and eat some for meat,'_ " she muttered.

He gave her a sharp look. "I'm sorry?"

"' _Third day, the men are all gnawed on again_ ,'" recited Morrigan brightly, eyeing Loghain's exposed neck.

Leliana shuddered. "Do you think Hespith—" she began in a whisper, and then trailed off, biting her lip.

"It's been two or three weeks at least," said the Mage with a shrug. "Who knows how long they take to transform?"

"I don't mean to pry," Loghain broke in impatiently, "but what are we talking about?"

The Mage sighed. "We're not sure, but there may be a freshly-turned Broodmother close by."

"Sounds delightful," said the Warrior. "Broodmother? Dare I ask what that is?"

She started, and looked at Loghain with dismay. "Oh," she said. "I thought –since you'd been here before, I assumed—" She broke off. How to explain the Broodmothers? Unless they met Hespith again, did he really need to know? Would she have to attempt to describe it?

" _They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood._ "

"Look, nothing's going to jump out at you or anything, I promise," she told him. "And you'll definitely know if we run across one. Actually, you'll have quite an advanced notice; long before you see or sense a Broodmother, you will be able to—"

They had come to the last doorway before the passage that led to the Broodmother's chamber. Trails of flesh and sinew snaked out from it. They stopped. Traces of an odor far fouler than decaying corpses reached them.

"—smell it."

" _And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned grey and she smelled like them._ "

"Hespith?" asked Leliana, holding her nose.

Morrigan shook her head. "I think it's the dead one," she gasped, mouth open like a cat's when something disgusts it.

Oghren made a face. "Ugh, you'd think they'd have eaten her or something by now," he muttered.

"That does not help," scolded the Witch.

Loghain looked around at the depressed and horrified faces of his companions. "Oh, come: this is letting the side down, friends!" he urged, perhaps hoping to annoy them into better spirits. "We've just slaughtered our way through the Deep Roads and passed through several chambers festooned with raw meat; what could possibly lie ahead that could give the fabled Grey Wardens such a fit of the vapors?"

His efforts earned one or two weak smiles, but no more. Even Sten shook his head. Morrigan waved a hand in the direction of the Broodmother's chamber. "Suit yourself, if you wish to see," she invited carelessly. "'Tis just down this passage and round the bend. We will wait here."

"No," said the Mage firmly. Loghain arched an eyebrow at her. "Seriously," she told him, "I'm not being funny. I'll be happy to explain it to you –somewhere else—"

" _They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them._ "

The Warden shook herself. "—I promise," she continued. "But really, don't let her goad you. There's nothing beyond that chamber that we haven't already explored; we have no reason to go in there –and you _really_ don't want to see it."

Loghain set his jaw, turned, and strode up the passage. The Mage sighed heavily. Dog took a couple of steps after him, stopped, whined, and looked back at the Mage, smacking his lips in distaste.

"Go on, if you can stand it," she said to him.

He turned and padded after his comrade. The company listened for the clash of combat, in case the Twins encountered any live Darkspawn in the chamber. They heard nothing for several moments, however, unless perhaps it was a distant, brisk sound of muffled retching. Eventually Loghain reappeared wiping his mouth, his face grey and shiny with sweat. His other hand gripped the top of the Mabari's head as they walked back to the others.

"Another time," he rasped at the Mage, "when we are well away from here, you may explain to me what that was. For now, however, I would thank the Dwarf for a drink of whatever he's got in that flask."

* * *

As each new area of the Deep Roads was pronounced (for the moment) clear of enemies, Dog would make a tour of it by himself –presumably to mark it, but also to search for hidden items of interest. Sometimes he returned with nothing; other times he brought back items that would only interest a dog; occasionally he was able to give the Warden something useful or saleable. As they neared the exit from the Dead Trenches, he came bouncing back to them with a large and heavy metal object. He set it down in the road and barked excitedly at the Mage. Taking the item from between the Mabari's paws, she realized that it was a helmet. The war dog barked again and wagged his stump of a tail furiously. He looked particularly pleased with himself.

The helmet was certainly well-made; in addition, the Mage could detect the hum of enchantment through her fingertips as she touched it. This item had been infused with lyrium, to give it extra powers of protection. It felt strong and safe. She looked over at Loghain. He might object to the griffon's wings that rose from its sides, but without knowing why she thought, perhaps not. She continued her inspection, turning the helmet over in her hands. Etched into the back, just at the nape of the wearer's neck, was a single word:

" _Duty_."

The Mage smiled. _I may not have found his sword,_ she thought, _but_ this _is his helmet_.

She turned to Loghain, who was now watching her and the prancing war dog with interest. "Catch—" she called out, heaving Duty at him, "but mind the Mabari drool."

He caught the helmet in one hand and eyed it doubtfully. "Do I even want to know where he found this?"

"In the Deep Roads?" mused the Warden. "Probably not. I'd certainly give it a good clean before you put it on, though."

He stuffed the helmet on top of his gear and they left the Dead Trenches behind. That night –or what they decided to call night, which was whenever they felt the need to camp and attempt some sleep—he retrieved it from his pack and began to scrub it clean with a paste of sand and a little of the contents of Oghren's flask. He was crouched before the light of the lava flow, chewing absentmindedly on a dried leaf –some herb, the Mage guessed, of which he kept a store in a small pouch at his belt. Suddenly she heard a choking noise from his direction; it sounded as though Loghain had nearly swallowed his leaf and was now spitting it out. She stole a look and caught him staring at her with a hard, incredulous face. The back of the helmet was turned to him, shining clearly in the firelight. He quickly jerked his head back down and finished cleaning the spot of the etching. The Mage saw him blink twice, saw his mouth pull down in a grimace and then jerk up as a short, soft laugh escaped him. At last he calmed, and nodded.

Without looking at the Warden, he stood up and walked over to the Mabari with an extra large snack.

"Thank you very much for the helmet," he said. "It fits perfectly, and I shall be proud to wear it."

Dog curled himself around in ecstasy and leaned on Loghain's shins, smiling up at him with his tongue lolling. Loghain, scratching him behind the ears, leant down as though trying to catch something inaudible that the Mabari had said.

"What's that?" he asked, craning his ear even closer to the war hound's panting muzzle.

"Forgive your mistress for being an insufferable—"

Dog barked once, sharply.

"Oh, all _right_."

* * *

 _Author's note: This chapter is my attempt to describe my first real experience with Loghain Mac Tir as a companion in battle. The Mage was my first PC to recruit him, and for that reason I had deliberately left large areas of Ferelden unexplored so that I could take him for a "test drive" before heading to Redcliffe for the Final Battle sequence. As in this story, we hit the Deep Roads first -after shopping at Soldier's Peak, of course. I had expected Loghain to be a solid, deliberate, somewhat slow tank, more along the lines of Sten than Alistair. Instead I got a Warrior who was faster than anyone else in the company except possibly the dog, and deadlier than anyone except the Mage herself. I also expected him to be largely silent, dour, sarcastic, and cold. I was right about the sarcasm. . ._

 _In case anyone is curious, most of the battle scenes in this chapter -minus the dialogue and dog biscuits, of course- actually happened in gameplay pretty much as they are described here, including the Tripwire Incident._


	6. Alpha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Many thanks go out to my readers and reviewers, and special thanks to[Josie Lange](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2507601/Josie_Lange) and [ShiningMoon](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/) for invaluable beta help. Josie Lange, incidentally, provided the inspiration for "The Tale of Archimbaud"._
> 
>  _This chapter contains a little bit of dialogue from the "A Golem's Memories" quest in Dragon Age: Origins. All characters and the Dragon Age universe are BioWare's, of course._

When approaching the Dead Trenches, the company had come from the east; as they broke camp the day after leaving them, however, the Mage turned them south. This prompted a ripple of comment in the ranks behind her; the Warden was surprised neither at this nor at the rolling, grinding approach of Shale’s footsteps as she left her place by Sten’s side and joined the Mage at the head of the group.

“Am I to assume,” asked the golem, “that it has finally decided to seek out Cadash Thaig, as it promised?”

“You are, and it has indeed,” answered the Mage. “I am sorry that we could not attempt it sooner, but it was safer to visit the thaigs we already knew first. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I suppose it thinks I should be grateful that it took time out of its great quest to follow the whim of one of its followers?”

“Not at all,” answered the Mage. “I see no reason why Cadash Thaig should not prove as profitable for us as any of the others.”

“Oh, so this is merely part of its commercial operation. What a relief,” sneered Shale. “I was beginning to find the sense of obligation horribly oppressive.”

The Mage smiled. Shale halted in her tracks, forcing the others to break their strides and navigate around her. When the Qunari hove into view beside her, the golem resumed her pace, the _clunk_ of his armor blending in with her long, crunching strides.

They had a stroke of luck as they approached the entrance to Cadash Thaig. Just before the highway dove under the arch and into the valley that marked the thaig’s entrance, they found a cave. It was reached from the road by climbing onto the stone ledge that ran alongside, and then squeezing between two boulders at the top of a short, steep, sandy incline. Once inside, the cave opened up into an area the size of a small hall, with stone balconies at intervals along the walls but no further openings in or out. A man standing upright (or a Dwarf or dog perched on a rock) could just see over one of the boulders to the highway below. In other words, it was a perfect place to pitch a real camp.

The Mage was delighted. A place to camp meant an opportunity to set up a base of operations, to light a fire, to drop some of their burdens and not need to have everything to hand at all times in case they were forced to move quickly by the appearance of an adversary. It also meant that they would be able to sleep in their tents. The Mage had come to appreciate the difference that even such a flimsy barrier as a swatch of cloth could make, and not only in how exposed they felt to their enemies. After a while, the Warden and her companions simply got sick of looking at each other, and of being constantly in view of the rest of the party. The luxury of being able to disappear behind a tent flap, take off their Grey Warden faces, and just be themselves, would do them all a world of good. In addition, the Mage knew that some of her companions were itching to have some “alone time”, as Oghren put it, to pursue certain activities that they all would prefer remained private.

Having a real campsite afforded the Mage additional opportunities as well, of which she meant to take full advantage. As the company staked out their bits of cave, deposited their burdens, and began to make themselves at home, she beckoned to Oghren for a word. The Dwarf heard her proposal with interest. “Aye, sure, heheh,” he growled in response. “It’s a sodding great idea, if he’s up for it. These old dogs do get set in their ways, though, you know,” he warned her. “Can’t tell ‘em nothin’ they don’t want to hear.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Loghain, his pack still on his shoulders, standing with crossed arms in the middle of the chamber. After a moment he turned, found his commander where she stood and strode up to her.

“We’re not stopping now, are we?” he asked. “We’ve been on the road three or four hours at most.”

“Some of us are stopping, yes,” answered the Mage. “I’m only taking three others with me into Cadash Thaig. This was how we worked the last time we were in the Deep Roads: the first time into each thaig, take no more than four as a scouting party. That’s enough to deal with any immediate group of enemies we might encounter, but not so many as to alert every Darkspawn in the place to our presence. And with that in mind,” she said, cocking a pointed eye at the Champion, “ _you_ and your partner in crime are definitely staying here.”

“I beg your pardon,” protested Mac Tir. “I am perfectly capable of moving and fighting in silence, Warden; I was leading squadrons of stealth fighters before you were born. I thought that the point of this exercise was to strike the fear of the Maker into these monsters.” The Mabari demonstrated his most ferocious growl, then barked happily.

“And you have certainly done so –both of you,” the Mage agreed. “But I have other plans for you today, Warden.” Loghain curled a suspicious eyebrow; his frown deepened when he saw the glint in Oghren’s eye.

The Mage explained. “You have displayed certain characteristics,” she said to Loghain, “which in my opinion coincide with those ideally sought in candidates wishing to learn the special techniques of the class of Warrior known as the Berserker. I have consulted with Oghren, who has mastered these techniques—”

“Oh, is that what he’s doing?” broke in Loghain. “I just assumed it was a drunken rage.”

“The drunkenness helps,” said the Dwarf. “But it’s the rage that’s the key thing.”

“—and Oghren agrees that you would make a fine Berserker,” continued the Mage. “He has graciously consented to spend the day teaching you some of the basic points – _if_ you’re interested.”

She could have ordered him, of course; but as long as her circumstances allowed it, the Mage preferred to offer everyone a choice, and to see how they responded. There was a long pause as Loghain eyed the Mage with a set jaw and a twisted mouth –no doubt, she thought, chewing over the unmitigated gall she displayed in suggesting that he, the Hero of River Dane, had anything to learn about fighting.

At last he turned, and addressed his reply to Oghren. “Why not,” he declared. “Never let it be said that Loghain Mac Tir got too old to acquire a new skill.” The Dwarf reached up and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “We’re gonna have some fun today, you’ll see.” 

The Mage did not have to consider long in choosing the two companions who would accompany her and Shale into Cadash Thaig. Sten would naturally follow his other _kadan_ , his stone sister, in her quest for the story of her past. Then, to detect and disarm any possible traps, and to deal with the trickier locks with which the ancient Dwarves sometimes protected their treasures, the party would need a Rogue. Zevran’s armor had sustained some damage in the Dead Trenches, so he could stay to make repairs in camp and leave the expedition to Leliana. The Warden gave the order; those who were to go emptied their packs of all but the necessary items of their trade, while those staying in camp arranged shelter for themselves and their fellows. The Mage also distributed all but two of the company’s remaining health poultices amongst the members of the Cadash Thaig expedition; Morrigan’s task while in camp would be to replenish their stock by brewing as many more as she could from the ingredients they had collected in their travels.

While the idea to offer Loghain berserker lessons had been brewing in the Mage’s mind since Caridin’s Cross, she had to confess that the timing in this case could not have been better; it provided a perfect excuse to remove his caustic wit and blunt opinions from Shale’s presence at a potentially sensitive time. Shale obviously noted this consideration on the Mage’s part, and took care to send an especially disdainful look her way as the Warden took her place at the head of the expedition. As they passed under the arch that signaled the entrance to Cadash Thaig, the Mage looked back at those she had left behind. Dog’s head was just visible over the top of one of the boulders flanking the cave’s entrance. His eye caught hers and his head began to wobble back and forth; the Mage smiled, picturing the Mabari’s wagging tail. The only other sign of life came from the echoes of Oghren’s gravelly voice as his instruction of the Hero of River Dane began.

* * *

Cadash Thaig was, to everyone’s surprise, green.

Water dripped down its walls, fell from cracks in the ceiling –that in some cases admitted beams of actual sunlight—and collected in pools around which the thaig’s old dwellings nestled. A thin carpet of moss covered much of the ground, clung to the feet of the buildings and even poked up between the stones of the various paths. The air was humid and smelled of mould, but the Mage, Sten and Leliana breathed deeply and sighed. Leliana’s mood seemed particularly lightened; the Mage imagined that the anticipation of a respite from comments about her Orlesian upbringing might be a contributing factor.

They moved forward languidly, as though they and the entire thaig were under water. Shale’s dreamlike musings on half-remembered landmarks added to the otherworldly atmosphere. Still, their instincts had not been completely dulled; when the first cluster of Darkspawn appeared on the path ahead, it did not take the Mage and her companions long to shake off their lethargy and get to work. The Mage also soon realized how quickly her brain and body had become accustomed to the brisk new pace that the company had adopted over the past few days. At the first sight of an enemy her body tensed, the hair on her scalp and at the back of her neck bristling; her nerve endings seemed to open up at her fingertips and along her spine like hungry mouths. It was not merely fear or the stress of battle that caused it; her senses _expected_ something, a trigger in her head had been wound up and set, and she waited in vain for it to go off.

In the meantime, their battles resumed the steady, dependable pace of those in their previous tour of the Deep Roads. The Mage found it necessary to revert to her old style of mob-fighting: sleep, weaken or immobilize, tempest, lightning bolts, repeat as necessary. Also, it seemed to take forever to engage the enemy; her companions never strayed far from her side, so they and the Darkspawn would exchange several volleys of ranged attacks before someone got fed up enough to cross the gap and initiate the final round in close-quarter combat. Once this stage began, the Mage was kept continually scurrying from one clump of enemies to another to rescue a companion struggling in its midst. Despite her unusually frequent healing spells, their stock of health poultices began to dwindle.

In this way the expedition crept through Cadash Thaig at what the Mage considered an intolerably slow pace. She felt itchy and restless. As she waited for a troop of Darkspawn archers to leave the shelter of their chosen ruins, she shifted from foot to foot like a child in need of the privy. It was then that, with a sharp, sinking feeling, she realized what was wrong: she could hear no pacing in the dirt behind her. No bray of laughter greeted the enemy; no harsh shout invited them to their deaths. The twin streaks of silver and brown that should have launched at the first sight of an enemy were missing. The trigger was primed, but no one released it.

On the whole, the Mage found Cadash Thaig rather dull.

She tried to think of Shale and how much interest their journey must hold for her. The golem’s face registered deep concentration as they proceeded down the moss-covered ways. She did not confess to anything as solid as a memory, but her senses clearly sent echoes of recognition through her frame, as sometimes happens in dreams when one “knows” things without knowing why. As they progressed, she began to walk even ahead of the Mage as she became increasingly convinced that this place had considerable significance in her past.

Leliana thought it natural and quite wonderful that Shale should have come from the “prettiest” thaig of them all. Shale rolled her eyes when the Bard expressed this sentiment; Sten groaned.

The golem’s spirits flagged, however, when they began to approach what appeared to be the end of the thaig without finding any actual evidence of her former identity. She had begun to resign herself to an idea of her past only slightly less fuzzy than she had had before, when she spied the top of an enormous statue that dominated a green island on the far side of a stagnant lake. The statue soon showed itself to be that of a Dwarf grasping a two-headed hammer as long as it was tall. Shale’s eyes grew bright and sharp as she stared at it; her feet were drawn towards the spot at a pace with which the others had to struggle to keep up. Repeated questions by her companions as to what she might have found only resulted in clenched fists and greater speed.

For this reason, they and the pack of Shrieks that inhabited the island were a bit of a shock to one another. The Mage’s senses had only just begun to register the pull of tainted blood when they were beset by waving claws and ear-splitting cries. She tried to back up and put some distance between herself and the enemy, but the statue left only a rim of turf on which to maneuver. Leliana also appeared frustrated by the disadvantage at which the limited terrain placed her. She soon gave up her bow and unsheathed the seldom-used daggers at her side. The Mage, however, had no close-range alternative. Still she sidled along the edge of the steep drop into the lake, peering around the hunched, lurching bodies of the Shrieks to see if any of her comrades were in trouble.

When the ground started shaking beneath her, she thought it was Shale pounding away at the earth to stun nearby assailants. A jolt in her veins told her that she was wrong. She turned to face the biggest Ogre she had ever seen as it loped towards their now pathetic-looking little band. Its massive head bobbed along with its strides, its empty grin and glittering eyes fixed on the Grey Warden.

The remaining Shrieks seemed to both flee from it and fall in around it, hopping around its legs for protection from Shale’s missiles and then flashing out for a renewed attack. The Mage realized in astonishment that the Ogre seemed to be directing them. As far as she knew, only Alphas actually had the superior intelligence and authority to direct their fellows in a unit; otherwise, they remained a mob, attacking and dying as they saw fit. She had never heard of an Ogre Alpha, but she believed that she might have encountered one here in Cadash Thaig.

Like the other Ogres they had encountered, it honed in on the Mage, making her its sole target; unlike the others, however, the Alpha was able to send the Shrieks to harry the Warden’s companions, cutting them off as they scrambled to come to her aid. The Mage could hear them calling, but could see only the dark hulk of the Ogre as it bore down on her, an animated mountain of muscle and sinew, heedless of her repeated efforts to paralyze or disorient it. For the first time she actually felt her store of mana ebb to the point where she felt as though she could not summon the energy to cast another spell; she found herself forced to take refuge between the great stone legs of the statue while she frantically searched inside her pack for a draught of lyrium. She found one and downed it just as the Ogre’s hand thrust through the gap, seeking to grasp and drag her into the open. She skittered away, backing up against the pile of boulders against which the monument stood, and pierced the groping hand with an arcane bolt. The hand withdrew, and the Ogre’s head replaced it in the gap. Its mouth gaped and it let out a furious bellow. From behind it the Mage could hear the pleas for help of her wounded companions. She aimed a fork of lightning at the eyes of the Alpha and scrambled over the boulders around the statue’s right heel, hitting the turf with a jolt and sprinting to rejoin the others.

They had managed to defeat the Shrieks but had used up the last of their health poultices in doing so. Leliana and Sten were both bleeding; the Mage struggled to heal them and to dodge the fists of the Ogre as it launched blow after blow at her face. With the Shrieks gone, her companions were free to come to their leader’s aid and, once they had recovered, began to attack the Alpha from both sides and behind. The Mage saw its eyes glitter as it felt the first bites of their weapons, but it never wavered from its target; unlike most Ogres, who once they had fixed on the Warden were blind to everything else, the Alpha acknowledged the others’ presence but simply did not care. Only when Leliana made a pest of herself by trying to leap onto its back did the Ogre so much as acknowledge that anyone but it and the Mage was involved in the battle. It shrugged the Bard off its shoulders, then without turning to look, it planted its left foot and aimed a kick at Leliana with its right, sending her sprawling several yards away. Uninterrupted, it lowered its head at the Warden and charged, its horns sweeping the air, hunting for her.

 _Well, and what else would you expect_? thought the Mage bitterly as she scrambled out of their path. _An Alpha will always recognize an Alpha when it sees one –and I’m the only other one around_.

It was an uncharitable thought, and she deplored her arrogance for thinking it. She also knew that it was true.

At last, weakened by the Mage’s spells and blinded in both eyes by the bolts of lightning she sent sizzling in relentless profusion through its skull, the Ogre succumbed to a rock nearly the size of Dog, heaved at its head by Shale with a vicious curse. As it lay on the ground, Sten plunged the Summer Sword through its heart, and the battle was over.

The Mage had just enough energy left to heal everyone who needed it before they proceeded to the looting stage. Fortunately, this lot of dead made up for their stubbornness in dying by yielding loot of exceptional quality, including an enchanted Dwarven dagger that the Warden guessed might delight her Assassin, and a quite astonishing amount of coin from the Ogre. The Mage had always thought it odd that so many Darkspawn were found to carry Fereldan coin, but to find so much of it this far back in the Deep Roads piqued her curiosity more strongly than ever. It did seem to work out that the stronger or more highly ranked the Darkspawn, the more coin they carried. Did they actually recognize it as currency? Or were they merely collecting shiny things as Ruck did? And did the lesser Darkspawn give coin to their superiors as tribute, or did the stronger ones “win” it in the same way that the Grey Wardens subsequently “won” it from them?

 _From the look of things_ , thought the Mage, _Ogre Alpha here has been beating the stuffing out of the local competition for quite some time. And now Mage Alpha gets to add its winnings to_ her _shiny pile. Won’t whatever kills me be excited? No Shriek minions for me, though. Heigh ho; such is life_.

“Look,” whispered Leliana. The Mage shook herself out of her reverie and followed the Bard’s eyes to the statue. Shale was staring at a plaque that had been set at the feet of the monument; it was etched with the emblems of House Cadash and covered with several columns of writing. The golem’s face wore an expression almost –if such a thing were possible—of fear.

“It –it has dates, and names,” she murmured as the Warden walked up to stand beside her. “This is to honor those who volunteered, those who became golems.” She pointed at a spot on the plaque. “There is _my_ name: ‘Shayle of House Cadash.’ I recognize it.” The stone head bowed; the eyes blinked in wonder at her memories. “I was _not_ created as I am now,” she declared at last. “I was once a creature of living flesh. A Dwarf, and a woman.”

“Caridin told you as much,” the Mage reminded her. “He had no reason to lie to you.”

“It is one thing to believe, however, and another to _know_ ,” answered Shale.

“Oh,” exclaimed Leliana as she joined them. “I never thought of you as ‘Shayle’ with a _y_. It seems much more appropriate for a woman.”

“Then I shall remain Shale without a _y_ ,” said the golem, “as I am no longer a woman, but a rock.” She turned her back on the statue and strode over to Sten, who had been keeping a respectful distance. He nodded.

“It is good that you accept what you are, _kadan_ , and name yourself accordingly,” he said.

“But I have heard the Qunari speak against those who would change what they are,” countered Shale; the Mage suspected that her concern was only half sarcasm. “I was a Dwarf who allowed herself to be changed into a golem. Does the Qunari not despise me for this?”

“You were a warrior,” answered Sten, “who desired to become a superior warrior. To improve oneself in one’s chosen path is highly regarded in the Qun.”

“I am glad to have the Qunari’s approval,” the golem rumbled pleasurably. “I look forward to the day when its kind assumes their rightful place over these puny, soft-headed races.”

With packs full of loot and no health poultices, the party elected to return to camp the way they came, trusting the path behind them to remain clear of enemies. They strolled back down the hill and across the lake; the Mage and Leliana followed, sharing sly looks and suppressed giggles at the pair in front of them.

Shale kicked aside the remains of a Hurlock that was blocking her path. “So,” she wondered. “If Caridin had not destroyed the Anvil, would the Qunari have volunteered to become a golem?”

“I think not,” answered Sten after a moment. “The golems created by Caridin were large and powerful, but I could best them in single combat even in my current form. They are not like you, _kadan_. Unless I could be modified as you were, I would not see the point.”

“True,” agreed Shale. “And they were terribly dull –mindless, grunting blockheads. No, on second thought, I would not see the Qunari made a golem, even if it wished to be. We shall leave it as it is,” she said.

Sten regarded his friend, who turned her face to his. “Then I shall die, and you live on, _kadan_ ,” he replied solemnly. “But I am honored to fight by your side for as long as our paths run together.”

“Had my heart not been pounded into dust by Caridin’s hammer, it would surely melt,” wheezed the golem. “But let us be silent,” she added briskly, facing forward again. “I can hear the Sister cooing with sentimentality already. On no account should we give it occasion to begin _singing_.”

* * *

The Mage had expected Dog to greet them first of anyone, bounding down from the ledge and nosing through all accessible pockets for treats. As they stepped out from the arch, however, they heard no happy bark, saw no mass of brown fur hurtling towards them. No big square head peered over either of the boulders at the entrance to the cave to mark their approach. Instead, there was freshly broken stone in the road and scorch marks on the boulders and the ledge. There had been a statue guarding the arch –a miniature of the monument that dominated the green island—but it was now in ruins, its limbs scattered across the archway and its head lying several yards away against the far wall. The Mage and her companions looked at each other apprehensively. Had the camp been attacked in their absence?

They hesitated to call out without knowing what enemies may still be nearby, but hastened towards the campsite. Suddenly the Mage felt a pull of tainted blood from inside the cave –but it was not Darkspawn. At that moment a crown of dark hair and a set of eyebrows popped up over the boulder to the left of the entrance. The eyebrows swiveled towards the arch and then lifted. There was a clatter of armor and Loghain rose to his feet.

“AH!” he shouted, clapping his hands together. His face wore a slanted smile. “Here they come back to us, all fresh from the field.” He bowed to them in greeting.

The Mage let the others up into the cave ahead of her; Loghain nodded each one through the entrance. “Had a nice little expedition, have we?” he asked them. “Found ourselves, have we? Excellent.” No one answered him. Shale came last before the Mage, fortunately still too lost in thought to spare Loghain much notice. He shook his head at her as she passed, and then turned to the Warden.

“Still looks like a vicious, insolent pile of rocks to me. . .” he observed.

The Mage noticed that he appeared to be supporting himself on the boulder with one hand. Was he injured? He seemed well, if somewhat strange in his manner. She gave the Warrior a quick scan, up and down –and saw the half-empty bottle propped at the foot of the boulder where Loghain had presumably been sitting. The Mage recognized the bottle as having once been full of especially potent and well-aged Tevinter spirits. They had found it in the lower levels of the Brecilian Forest ruins, and had taken one hair-curling snort of it apiece before handing it over to Oghren, as the only companion who had a chance of surviving prolonged exposure to the evil stuff.

The Mage pursed her lips; one might think either that she was expressing prim disapproval or that she was trying extremely hard not to laugh.

“Your Grace must have done well today,” she observed. “Oghren doesn’t give out the _good_ liquor to just anyone, you know.”

There was a crash from inside Oghren’s tent, which nearly buckled in on itself. As they watched, the Dwarf crawled out and made his way to where the Mage and Loghain were standing. Amidst the curses could be heard a series of mumbled exclamations: “Sodding terrific. . .born natural. . .wonderful teacher, of course, heheh. . .”

The Mage shook her head as Oghren reached them and used the boulder to pull himself to his feet. “Great,” she said. “Now I have two drunken berserkers in my camp.”

“ _I_ am _not_ drunk,” protested Mac Tir. “I have merely been celebrating the successful conclusion of my tutelage with this, most fearsome—” He clapped Oghren on the shoulder, sending him sliding to the ground again “—and generous warrior.” Loghain grasped his instructor under the armpits and hauled him back up to face the Mage. “Now, my brother in arms,” he said. Oghren grinned and gave a thumbs up; Loghain glanced at the slumped form of the Dwarf dangling from his gauntlets and chuckled. “Literally,” he added.

Morrigan’s voice came partially muffled from inside her tent at the back of the cave. “Allowing that maniac to become a berserker was perhaps your most foolish notion yet,” she scolded. “They have been like two mad beasts all afternoon.”

Glancing around the campsite, the Mage frowned. “Where’s Zevran?”

“I took refuge up here with the dog,” answered the Elf, peering over one of the balconies that ran halfway up the walls. “Now that you are here to contain these two fierce, brave, _dangerous_ men, we shall come down.” Dog barked emphatically and began to scramble down the stone steps that led up to the ledge. Zevran stretched, placed his hands on the balcony’s edge and vaulted gracefully to the floor. He landed lightly on his feet and strolled over to relight the fire that Loghain and Oghren had let die.

“You seem to have had a productive day, as well,” observed Mac Tir, glancing at the Mage’s torn and dirty vestments. He craned his head forward and sniffed. “Hmm. . .” he said. “Blood –and moss!”

“The thaig was full of it, for some reason.”

Oghren stirred at this and shook himself free of Loghain’s supporting grasp. “Moss?” he demanded. “Thaig moss? Where?”

“Back in Cadash Thaig, of course,” answered the Mage.

“And you didn’t bring any back with you?” cried the Dwarf. “Sod it, woman! Do you know what I could have made with that stuff?”

“Um. . .health poultices?”

“Heh. . .well, you wouldn’t be feeling any pain, that’s for sure. . .”

His shoulders slumped; disgusted, he stalked over to the fire, scooping his flask off the floor of the cave where he had dropped it. He took a consolation swig and tipped the flask at Zevran, inviting the Elf to join him in mourning the thaig-moss ale that would never be.

Her robes, gloves and leggings were truly filthy, the Mage realized as she approached the fire herself. Not only was there an unusual amount of blood spatter, but the moss had left streaks of green nearly up to her ankles and there were smears of dirt from where she had scrambled over the boulders in her efforts to escape the Ogre. She was not fastidious about the dirt itself; however, while her companions could wear the accumulated blood and gore of their beaten enemies with pride if necessary, the Mage had attired herself all in white, precisely for the startling effect it had when contrasted with the red tattoos, the flaming cap of her shorn hair, and the staring topaz eyes. The White Demon could not be seen besmirched with the stains of battle.

She could only completely clean her outfit from inside her tent, of course, where she would be able to remove it. However, she did not feel like retiring just yet. Instead, she sat on one of a circle of rocks that someone had thoughtfully placed around the fire, and pulled a bottle of water from her pack. Fortunately, the water flowing through Cadash Thaig had been quite clear, so the expedition party had filled all of their bottles and the empty health poultice flasks before returning to camp. With the water and a cake of soap she began to scrub at some of the more offensive spots; then, as each spot dried, she aimed her staff at it and murmured a few words under her breath. She nodded to herself as white appeared where the marks had been.

“Ah,” said a voice nearby. The Mage looked up to see Loghain standing over her, watching. “I had wondered about that,” he said. “You seemed to have chosen a highly impractical color for our line of work –though visually impressive, I grant you. I suppose you have some spell that makes the offending element disappear?”

The Mage smiled. “Nothing so dramatic,” she admitted. “I clean my vestments as often as I can, in the normal way; in the meantime I do my best to get the excess out of the material, and then I just turn the material white.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She coughed, feeling unexpectedly sheepish. “The robes they give apprentices in the Tower are all pretty uniform, and extremely drab,” she explained. “Invariably, when they’re around fourteen or fifteen years old, the apprentices get rebellious and refuse to wear the uniform.” Loghain smirked knowingly; the Mage wondered briefly what sort of rebellions Anora might have mounted at a similar age.

She continued: “Apprentice Mages have no property of their own; without the resources to buy or make our own clothes, we turn to learning spells that change the appearance of the ones we have –including the color.”

Loghain laughed. “I see,” he said, nodding.

“I can turn just about any kind of cloth white –for the most part. Leather, too,” said the Mage, lifting a booted foot the inner half of which was freshly clear of color. “If you look closely enough you can see the outlines and slight shadings where the stains have set. But, no one ever gets that close,” she concluded with a wry smile.

“I see,” he said again, softly this time.

She chuckled. “Some of the apprentices learned a modified version of the spell that could change the color of metals,” she told him. “They used to get the Templars when they weren’t looking –turn their armor purple or bright yellow or whatever.” She cast a mischievous eye at the expanse of silverite in front of her. Loghain’s eyes flashed in alarm.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

The Mage laughed aloud. “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “I was a good girl; I never learned that one.”

“Well, mind you stay a good girl, now.”

The Warden ducked her head, suddenly abashed. She thought it best perhaps just to concentrate on her task of cleaning. A tremor rippled through her blood; Loghain had stepped around her and plunked himself on the nearest rock. He took a careful swallow from the Tevinter bottle, winced, shook his head briskly, and let out a long, rattling sigh.

He tilted his shoulders at the Mage; if his eyebrows had had elbows, they would have nudged her in the ribs.

“Miss me?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the Warden’s pack over to rest in front of him and began to rummage through her share of the day’s loot. Her eyes were still trained on her work, but she had excellent peripheral vision and could watch him as he removed each item, inspected it, and rendered his silent judgment of its worth. She bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks.

“Not a bit,” she said casually.

He nodded. “Nor I you. Excellent notion, having me learn the ways of the berserker,” he added pleasurably. “Did you see what we did to that old statue by the archway?”

“Very impressive,” agreed the Mage.

Another swallow. “That Dwarf can swear, though,” said Loghain. “Maker! I’ve been a soldier nearly forty years, and even I’d never heard some of the terms he uses.”

“What, you mean like—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “Please, don’t say it,” he begged her. “I don’t even know what you’re going to say, but don’t. Not you.”

“Why not?” she asked, frowning. “Because I’m a woman?”

“No,” protested Loghain, shaking his head. “No: it would neither bother nor surprise me to hear one of Oghren’s choice phrases issuing from the lips of, say, the Marsh Witch, for example. Or most any woman, given the right circumstances. But not you.” He looked at the Warden admonishingly over his shoulder.

“I’m hardly a genteel, delicate flower,” she reminded him.

“Certainly not,” he chuffed. “Still, it doesn’t feel right.” He threw up his hands and shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

“I think I can,” said the Mage wearily. She dropped the fold of her robes that she had been cleaning and tossed her staff on the ground with a sigh. “People get this idea about me,” she explained, eyes rolling heavily in her skull. “They think of me as—”

“As a good girl,” finished Loghain.

She nodded, her mouth twisting strangely. “Too good for earthly, common, bestial things, yes,” she said. “People feel a need to hide their sinful selves in my presence.” She choked back a laugh, surprised at its bitterness. “Don’t swear around me,” she recited, “don’t misbehave around me; don’t think unholy thoughts—”

She broke off, recalling the anguished ravings of Cullen in the Circle tower that had amounted to a confession of most unholy thoughts. After it was all over and the Circle had been restored, she had tried to speak to Cullen, to tell him it was all right, she’d had no idea; he had nothing to feel guilty about. He would not even look at her. The Templars were taught to be on their guard against wily, devious, lascivious Mages, who would use their unnatural arts to seduce the naturally chaste knight away from duty and virtue. Cullen’s disgust, however, had been directed entirely at himself, at the monstrosity of his desire for her. The Warden thought also of Zevran’s lustful glances, of Leliana’s hopeless puppy love; both Rogues most at home when intimate, but hanging uncharacteristically back where the object of their affection was the White Demon. _No one ever gets that close_. It was true; it had always been. More than one kind of fear was at work in her case.

“I should hardly think you’d be surprised,” Loghain remarked, “when you go about looking like a bloody Chantry virgin.”

The Mage turned her face to him and stared, unsure if she was offended or curious for him to continue. Loghain frowned at himself and blinked. He blew out his cheeks.

“I _am_ drunk,” he said.

“That Tevinter stuff will creep up on you.”

In the course of her army-raising tour of Ferelden, the Mage had come to think of Loghain in a similar way as she had the Sloth demon that had trapped her and her companions in its own special realm of the Fade. To defeat both enemies she had had to wander up and down the length and breadth of a strange and sometimes hostile terrain, fighting off mobs, dodging traps, performing services and favors, acquiring new gifts and skills. In both cases, she had discovered her enemies’ secrets, destroyed their minions and worked her way in, finally, to the heart of each realm where its lord waited to crush her. And she had crushed each of them in turn.

While she knew quite well, of course, that Loghain Mac Tir was not the Sloth demon or anything like it, she realized now that she had, in a way, still been thinking of him as something figurative: a character from a story or a dream, a great opposing force that she had somehow managed to harness. It had taken this long day apart from him to give her the proper sense of perspective. The creature sitting beside her was not a demon, or a prize, or the embodiment of some goal or achievement; Loghain Mac Tir was a man, and he was alive.

She also realized for the first time how much the man differed in appearance from the hero depicted in the illustrated histories of her childhood and in the grand portraits she had seen in Denerim. Dark hair with a single plait falling from each temple; dark, dramatic brows in a pale face atop keen blue eyes; a proud, pronounced nose and chin; and of course the signature silverite armor –show these to any Fereldan and he would recognize the Hero of River Dane. And it was true that the man displayed all these characteristics as well. But the complexion in the paintings was that of a noble, it was Anora’s paleness, whereas the face of Loghain Mac Tir was raw with years of harsh treatment and dutiful but otherwise indifferent care. Only the most recent of his portraits had admitted the slightest shading of purple under his eyes, or perhaps a well-judged line of age as befitting a statesman. Not a single artist had included the slight cast in Loghain’s left eye, or neglected to refine his square and somewhat prominent teeth. Perhaps, thought the Mage, the writers of the histories and keepers of Ferelden’s legends had meant to make him worthy to show alongside the other heroes of his day: the golden King Maric and his beautiful warrior Queen. But while the artists had created a darkly handsome hero, they had left this man in his shadow; and while the Mage had now met or traveled with several handsome men, this was the first face that she must confess to having missed.

Loghain, still perusing the contents of her pack, cleared his throat. “Are you concerned that I might find something scandalous in here?” he asked. “I promise, if I come across your secret diary, I won’t peek.”

She started. “Sorry, no,” she said, “I mean, no, nothing scandalous of course, and I mean, sorry.” She looked quickly down at her hands. “It’s this terrible habit I have: I drift away on a trail of thought and my eyes just kind of stop where they were. People always think I’m staring at them. It’s quite embarrassing,” she finished with a guilty smile and a shrug.

After a long skeptical look at her out of the corner of his eye, Mac Tir relented. “I suppose I can believe that,” he allowed. “So, what trail were you following just now?”

If she was going to lie, she must lie quickly. The Mage glanced at the Mabari, who had settled himself on the ground between them. “I was thinking it’s time we gave Dog a real name,” she said.

This caused Loghain to drop a silver chalice. He turned at last to look askance at the Warden.

“He doesn’t have a name?”

“We’ve just been calling him Dog,” answered the Mage.

“That’s not his name?”

“What kind of a name is Dog?”

“A depressingly unoriginal one, I thought,” declared the Warrior. “So why haven’t you named him?”

“There didn’t seem to be a need,” said the Mage. “He’s always there, everyone knows who he is, and there’s certainly no one else like him around.”

Leliana, who had wandered over to the circle from her tent, had clearly been waiting for this. “Ooh, we should name him ‘Archimbaud’,” she exclaimed, “because he is so brave and gallant, and will always come to your rescue. And he sings for you, too,” she added lovingly.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Zevran from his place crouched over the fire; it was his turn to cook. “Our Mabari is no gentleman, he is a pirate: he swashes through every town and village, killing anyone foolish enough to stand in his way, pissing on all the landmarks and taking all the women. Oh yes,” he winked at the war hound. “I’ve seen you in the alleys and behind the barns at night, having your way with the local bitches.” Zevran rose to his feet and struck a dashing, piratical pose. “His name should be ‘ _Brigante_ ’,” he said with a flourish.

These suggestions were met with matching looks of horror from both Wardens. The Mage cleared her throat.

“Zevran, that’s very flattering,” she demurred, “but it’s a bit –well, look at him.” Dog lounged at the Wardens’ feet, gnawing at his hindquarters. “He’s a _dog_. He is all those other things you say –though I’m a bit surprised to hear he’s also a heartbreaker—but he is every bit a dog.” The Mage shook her head. “Could you look at that face and call him ‘Brigante’?” she asked.

The Mabari made a slurping noise against his flank. With a disappointed glance at the war dog, Zevran shrugged in acquiescence and returned grumbling to the stew pot. Leliana looked hopefully at the Warden, who turned up her palms in bewilderment. “And what does ‘Archimbaud’ even _mean_?” she asked the Bard.

“Oh,” cried Leliana, “you do not know the tale of Archimbaud! It is one of my favorites.” She fairly skipped to her tent and emerged presently with a lute hanging from her shoulder by a strap. “Story time!” cackled Oghren, hauling himself into a viewing position next to the Elf. Loghain stifled a groan with a significant pull from his bottle. Zevran began to distribute stew amongst the company; Sten appeared silently to receive his portion and returned to where Shale stood at a little distance from the others. The Mage slid from her rock and sat on the ground with her back against it instead, her legs stretched out before her. Leliana positioned herself on the other side of the fire from her audience and swept her eyes over them invitingly: the two Wardens with the dog between them, Oghren saluting her with a toast from his flask, Zevran discreetly passing a bowl of stew into Morrigan’s hand as it protruded briefly from her tent and then withdrew. As they began to eat, Leliana struck a chord on her lute.

“The story goes,” she began, “that Archimbaud was the strongest, fiercest, bravest –knight—in the land. There was no enemy he could not kill, no weapon he could not master, no horse he could not ride, no hardship he would not face in the name of duty.” At this she looked with bright eyes at Mac Tir, who snorted. The Mage smiled.

“But Archimbaud had two secret loves that he never told anyone about,” continued the Bard. “He loved music, and he loved a woman.”

Loghain rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me guess,” he sneered. “I’ll wager she was high-born and he wasn’t, and everyone thought she was too good for him: am I right?” The hand holding the bottle waved accusingly at Leliana. “So,” he continued, “he—ran away to join a troupe of minstrels and see the world, and they became rich and famous and sought-after by all the nobles.” He chuckled bitterly. “Then he came home and she was all over him and everyone thought it was wonderful. There you are: end of story. These tales are all the same.” His eyes challenged the Bard.

“On the contrary,” she replied. “The woman he loved was an Elf.” Loghain scowled. “She was very beautiful and very clever, the finest hunter in the land; but the knight could never court her because she lived in the forest with her clan and did not come out. He could not run away to be with her because of his duty, and because he knew his people would punish her, saying that she must be a witch to steal away their best –knight.”

“Ah,” moaned Zevran. “Typical,” sniped Morrigan from inside her tent.

“His only hope was to make her fall in love with him and lure her out of the forest. He had heard that the Elves proved their worth with their hunting skills, so he slew many wild beasts and left their hides just outside their camp, as gifts for her—”

Oghren made his hands into horns and placed them on either side of his head to resemble the beast; Zevran, drawing an imaginary bow, simulated the kill.

“He heard of a group of bandits that had been terrorizing her clan, and he tracked them down and killed them all, taking their arms and weapons as trophies for her—”

“Pow, pow, blam,” slurred Oghren from his seat, throwing punches at the air. Zevran, still standing, reeled from the imaginary blows. Leliana smiled.

“He had a grand house built just outside the forest,” she continued, “with tall towers that showed over the tops of the trees, from which he sailed bright banners every day. He filled his grounds with statues and flowers and butterflies, all to entice the Elf maiden out of the forest. He used to wander there every day in the hopes that she would come out, so that he could meet her, as if by accident.”

Zevran and Oghren posed like statues and flitted like butterflies.

“He was given the name Archimbaud, which means ‘genuine courage’, for his deeds.” Loghain raised an eyebrow at the suspiciously Orlesian-sounding name. “But while she was grateful for his services, she did not love him; nor did she ever come out of the forest.” “Tsk, tsk,” mourned Zevran. “Stupid rock-licker,” Oghren grumbled.

“Finally, a single Elf child was found wandering in his garden by the knight’s men. They took her to Archimbaud as a trespasser, but he sent them away and questioned her alone. He discovered that she belonged to the same clan as the huntress that he loved. ‘Why does she never come out of the forest?’ he asked the child. ‘Has she never heard of me? Does she not know of all the things I have done?’

“The child promised to ask the huntress for him, and was sent away with a crown of flowers from his garden. The knight waited three days for her return, pacing in his garden and hardly eating or sleeping, only humming to himself a small, lonely tune that he made up to accompany him in his desire and anguish.”

Oghren had slumped over and appeared to be dozing; Zevran attempted a few notes alone but then stopped, smiled sheepishly at the Mage, and looked at the ground.

“On the evening of the third day, the child came back with her answer. ‘The huntress knows of you, and your deeds,’ she said. ‘But she does not know you, human. She will not come.’

“The knight was devastated. He was nothing without his deeds and accomplishments, he thought. If she could not accept him for those, what else could he give her? How else could he show himself to her, and prove his love?”

Taking Oghren’s flask gently from his hand, the Elf slipped behind the audience to where the Mage sat at the other end of the row. He settled to the ground by her side, wiped the mouth of the flask with his glove, took a pull, and offered it to his commander.

“Archimbaud shut himself up in his grand house and would not see anyone, or go out on hunts, or perform any of the favors or services normally expected of a ch –knight. The house was like a place of the dead; even the servants moved about in silence. The only sound to be heard was the knight’s lonely tune that he hummed constantly without even realizing it.”

The Mage accepted the flask from the Assassin and drank. As she passed it back, the Elf smiled slyly into her eyes; then the smile hitched wickedly up at one corner as he spotted something over her shoulder. The Mage turned to see Loghain staring sharply at them.

“One night,” whispered Leliana, “Archimbaud had a terrible dream that he had disappeared. He was still alive, still real, but no one could see or sense him. His body was gone, his armor was gone.” She spread her empty hands dramatically, her eyes wide. “He tried to speak to people, to show them proof that he was real: trophies of kills, gifts from nobles and royalty; but no one noticed. Nothing he did had any effect on anyone or anything. ” She shook her head mournfully. “And the music followed him everywhere. He began to believe that the music was making him invisible, so he tried to block it out. But when he tried, it was as though he had lost his breath, and the world began to fade from him as he had faded from the world. Finally he realized that the song _was_ him, it was his life; if the music stopped, there would be nothing left of him, and he would die.”

The Mage attempted to scratch Dog behind the ears, but could not elicit the same ecstatic response as Loghain always did. Mac Tir, watching her, took a long swallow from the Tevinter bottle and coughed. When the Warden looked up, he reached across the Mabari and offered her a drink. The Mage glanced warily at the bottle, and then back at Loghain’s steady gaze.

“So instead he listened to the music –really listened instead of just letting it play—and it began to grow inside him. It swelled to fill his whole heart, and began to form words. Suddenly he had a voice; when he sang the words, people could hear him. He kept singing and the words changed to match his new hope. Suddenly, from far off, he heard another voice join her song with his. But before he could find the singer, the knight awoke from his dream.”

The Mage received the bottle from Loghain’s hand, took a deep breath, and brought it to her lips. When her eyes had stopped watering and the liquor had set up a warm buzz in her stomach, she passed the white shear back to her fellow Warden, who accepted it with glinting eyes and a smugly curling mouth. He settled back to indulge the Bard in the rest of her story.

“Archimbaud leapt from his bed,” exclaimed Leliana. “He could still hear the words of his dream song, and he scrambled to write them down before they were lost. The tune he knew, but he had always just let it play in his head; now he grabbed a lute that he kept hidden in his room and made himself learn to play it.” The lute made a few stumbling notes under her fingers, then grew stronger. “When the song was his,” continued Leliana, “he ran to the forest, past the bewildered servants and the squires calling to him to wait. He was unarmed, unattended, and in plain clothes, with nothing but his song and his love.” The song from the Bard’s lute swelled, plaintive and yearning. “And once inside the forest he sang, and played, wandering far from his home, to leave one last gift for the Elven huntress. And at last, as in his dream, he got an answer; she met him amongst the trees, and joined her song with his.”

“Aww,” cooed Zevran. A noise of disgust came from Morrigan’s tent. Leliana struck a happy chord on the lute and smiled.

“With the huntress by his side, the knight achieved more deeds of renown than ever before, and was celebrated throughout the land long after his death. But he always said that he truly earned the name ‘Archimbaud’ not for anything he did as a chevalier, but on the day he offered himself, without fear, and so won his love.”

Zevran clapped and cheered; Leliana bowed; Oghren woke with a snort and a belch. The Mage cringed: not because of the Dwarf or the story, but because of Loghain, who had begun fuming with the word “chevalier”.

“I knew it,” he growled, “This is an _Orlesian_ tale.”

Leliana rolled her eyes and sighed. “It is _anyone’s_ tale, silly,” she chided him, smiling as though at a patiently loved child. “I just happened to learn it in Orlais.”

Loghain, speechless at being called _silly_ , made an indistinct grumbling noise.

The Bard groaned in exasperation. “ _Fine_ ,” she said. “He was not a chevalier. He was a big, strong, honest, hard-working, cheese-loving Fereldan knight, called Ser Fereldan. Would that make you happy?”

“That depends,” said Loghain equably. “What was his dog’s name?”

“Alpha,” said the Mage.

Every face turned to her in puzzlement. She indicated the Mabari with her chin. “He is Dog Alpha,” she said.

“What kind of a name is _that_?” demanded Loghain.

“Well,” explained the Mage, “we categorize the enemy according to their rank and class, correct? With the most formidable of any class being referred to as the Alpha. Well: our Dog is most formidable, is he not?” The war dog barked in agreement. “So he is the Alpha of dogs,” concluded the Mage. Dog rolled on his back and waved his paws.

“But that’s just a title, a description, not a name,” protested Mac Tir.

“We are all eventually called what we are, Ser Hero of River Dane,” replied the Mage serenely. “In Alpha’s case, we are merely skipping a step.”

Loghain looked at the Mabari. “Are you on board with this?” he asked his friend. Dog barked happily.

“Of course you are. She’s controlling the snacks.”

Alpha grinned at both Wardens, panting in agreement. Loghain shook his head resignedly. From his place at the back of the cave, Sten favored his _kadan_ with a look of immense pride.

The Mage rose, thanked Leliana, and reclaimed her pack from between the Warrior’s knees. She raised her hand to her companions and prepared to retire to her tent.

Loghain looked pointedly at his commander. “Tomorrow,” he declared, “you will witness my new skills in the field of battle.”

“We’ll see about that,” she answered.

“Huh.” His mouth twitched; he blinked, and gave the Mage a brisk nod. “Good night,” he said, “er—” and here Loghain paused, frowning. “—Grey Warden,” he finished.

The Mage smiled. “Good night, Ser Fereldan,” she replied.

As soon as she had entered her tent, the Mage crouched on all fours in the middle of the floor and transformed into a bear. She believed she knew what had caused that frown, and had found in the past that her hearing sharpened considerably when in this form. Breathing as quietly as she could, she trained her ears on the group by the fire.

Zevran was chuckling: evidently, he had also noticed Loghain’s discomfiture and had made the same guess as the Mage for the reason.

“You have just realized that you do not know our dear Warden’s name,” he whispered mischievously.

“I do not,” answered Loghain, “and I’d feel a damned fool to have to ask her. What is it?”

“It is an unlovely name,” said the Elf, “and not worthy of one such as she. I also find it impossible to pronounce. I simply call her Warden. Or Boss. Or ‘my lady’, if I am in that sort of a mood.”

“And yet, you desire. . .intimacy with her.”

Zevran gave a soft laugh. “One can call out many things in the act of love,” he said knowingly. “It does not necessarily have to be the name of the beloved.”

The Warrior let this go, and directed his next question behind him. “What about you, then, so deliberately not listening back there?” he called out. “You have been travelling with her longer than any of us. Do they not have formal introductions in the Korcari Wilds?”

“She never offered the information,” answered Morrigan carelessly, “and I saw no reason to enquire.”

“Of course you didn’t,” snorted Mac Tir. “And you, young lady? Surely Bards must learn the names of legends to properly immortalize them?”

“I too find the pronunciation difficult. I think it might help if she wrote it down for me, but she has never done so. She is my friend, and so that is what I call her.”

“Huh. I don’t suppose she has divulged her secret to the Qunari, there.”

“I heard the name once,” said Sten. “But she was insignificant to me at the time, so I forgot it. Now she has become _kadan_ to me, so I would call her nothing else even if I knew her ‘real’ name.”

“Maker’s _eyes_. . .”

There was a pause, followed by another belch from the Dwarf.

“Nobody ever told _me_ her sodding name,” grumbled Oghren.

“I believe, my moist friend,” soothed the Elf, “that by the time you joined our company, there did not seem to be a need.”

* * *

  
 _Update 06/09: Artwork! We have artwork! This fantastic "snapshot" of Leliana (and Oghren and Zevran) performing The Tale of Archimbaud is by ShiningMoon, whose other works (and more Unbound illustrations to come!) can be seen[here](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/)._

 _  
  
_


	7. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which histories are examined, a possible future is considered, and some old ghosts tap our heroes on the shoulder. Also, Dagna FTW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As always, heartfelt thanks to my readers, especially those who favor me with bookmarks/kudos/reviews. Extra special thanks to[Josie Lange](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2507601/Josie_Lange) and [ShiningMoon](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/) for patience and beta help._
> 
>  _This chapter contains dialogue both from the regular game and the Return to Ostagar DLC of Dragon Age: Origins -though I may have made an edit or two. :)_
> 
>  _ **Update:** Chapter 7 now has art! See it at the bottom of this chapter and click on the link to see it on the artist's page on deviantART.com and leave comments and squee. ;)_
> 
>  _The DA universe is Bioware's, of course. This particular story is mine._

"I'd stay back if I were you," growled Oghren, reaching out a restraining arm. "The womenfolk are puttin' on their war paint."

Three days had passed since the Cadash Thaig expedition, and the Wardens' company was enjoying its first morning above ground. Their camp was on a little rise above a mountain stream, whose icy waters were more than welcome for drinking and for scrubbing off the accumulated grime of a week in the Deep Roads. They would have plunged in as soon as they had reached the campsite the night before, if there had been moonlight enough to see by. Instead, they had gone to bed dirty and arisen at first light, ready to jostle the others for their turn.

Leliana and Zevran generally had no reservations about bathing or undressing in front of others, and would sometimes go together to wash, or join Alistair or Sten as the mood took them –usually a mischievous mood, as neither the boy nor the Qunari handled their presence at such times gracefully. However, the Wardens' company was for the most part rather private about its toilette. Bath time in particular was considered a time of solitude –if one didn't count Alpha, who stayed by (or in) the water for as long as he was allowed. Loghain had taken his turn last of all except for Oghren, and had come clattering back through the trees with as much of his armor attached as he could manage by himself, shaking his wet head briskly to dry it, like a dog.

As he stood by the fire, sniffing at that morning's offering of breakfast, those of his companions familiar with the workings of heavy armor moved to help him with the remaining buckles, catches and straps. For greater convenience, Sten took the top half, Oghren below. It was a service that each warrior returned to his fellows as they had the need. Once properly re-encased in silverite, Loghain had accepted a plate of food from Zevran and made a move toward the other side of the fire, obviously intending to break his fast next to his fellow Warden. It was at this moment that Oghren had stopped him. Mac Tir frowned down at the Dwarf, and then looked across the fire to discover that indeed, the sunny side of the clearing was entirely occupied by the females of the company. Each female held a small mirror in one hand, while the other made use of the contents of a box of cosmetics that lay open on the ground in front of them.

The box was Morrigan's, and was kept filled for the most part by her arts. Though the Mage liked to enhance the effect of her tattoos by applying a mask of red paint around her eyes and a similar color to her lips, she did not feel justified in using her armies' funds to purchase the necessary cosmetics in Denerim or elsewhere. Fortunately, Morrigan's mother had provided her daughter with the skills and knowledge required to concoct a wide range of paints and powders from ingredients found in the wild. As Morrigan was concerned not only with her own appearance but also with that of the company she kept, she was only too happy to keep the Mage and Leliana supplied with whatever they needed. Leliana indulged a little in Morrigan's wares, especially if they were going into town, but was often just as happy with a pretty ribbon or scented cream, purchased with her own coin from the Orlesian's stall in the Denerim market. This morning she sat studying her face for blemishes and patting a light powder over her nose, chin and forehead. Morrigan was trying a rich emerald color on her eyelids. The men stood on the other side of the fire and averted their gazes, as though they had trespassed on something sacrosanct.

"Even she?" Loghain asked incredulously, after sparing a glance at the Mage.

Zevran shrugged. "For her, it is truly war paint, such as our canine friend wears," he said. "The others are merely reminding us that we travel with beautiful women –if extremely deadly women. Whose painted faces are occasionally covered in gore."

"There is no excuse for a woman not to take pride in her appearance, no matter the circumstances," opined Morrigan from behind her golden mirror. She turned her head from side to side to admire the effect of her dark lashes against the green.

Leliana lowered her pearl-handled looking-glass long enough to point it accusingly at the men. " _You_ all shave your faces and braid your hair," she argued.

From behind her mirror, the Mage heard several male grumblings about how it was not the same thing. " _I_ don't sodding shave," protested Oghren.

"But you spend more time braiding that big red beard than any of us 'womenfolk' spend on our hair," countered the Bard.

"That's different!"

Leliana groaned and threw up her hands in frustration; Oghren stalked off muttering to himself until he was caught and bullied by Sten into taking his turn in the stream. As the Mage shifted her bit of mirror to begin work on her other eyelid, she saw more than one man touch his braids surreptitiously. Some small touchups were performed.

Suddenly, Leliana tossed her mirror on the ground. "It's not fair!" she cried petulantly. Though her natural beauty was such that most cosmetics she might apply would only be an embellishment, not a necessity, her one complaint –her one obsession—about her appearance was her eyelashes. As was often the case with women of her complexion, her eyelashes were pale, and somewhat short and sparse, which she had always bemoaned as monstrously unfeminine and unfair. She spent a lot of her looking-glass time either gazing wistfully at Morrigan's deep, feathery eyelashes or trying to coax her own ginger stumps into something more visible. Morrigan knew exactly what was coming and gritted her teeth.

"Oh, _please_ , not the Great Bardic Eyelash Tragedy _again_!" she groaned. "Either buy false ones from that Orlesian coquette in Denerim or let it go and stop whining!"

"But that is not what is truly unfair," protested Leliana. "You are a beautiful woman, Morrigan, and you _should_ have long gorgeous eyelashes to accent your beautiful eyes. No, it is _him_!" she wailed, pointing an accusing finger at Loghain, who looked as if he had just been mugged. "His eyelashes are twice as long and as full as mine, and you can hardly _see_ them under that great big scowl of his!"

Sten looked resolutely away, pretending not to have heard this outrage; Zevran snickered. Loghain stared helplessly at the Mage, silently pleading with her to stop this nonsense. The Mage merely smiled, and slid her gaze back behind her mirror.

Glancing around the campsite, Leliana noticed Shale standing halfway between the men and the women, looking somewhat at a loss. The Bard jumped up and formally invited the golem to the girls' side, taking up a cloth to polish her crystals and rearrange some of them into a more flattering formation. Shale submitted awkwardly at first, huffing at "the Sister's" foolishness, but her prickliness soon dissolved under Leliana's attentions. The new crystal placement was deemed satisfactory, and Shale permitted herself an admiring glance or two in the Orlesian's looking-glass.

Leliana's love of beautiful things, thought the Mage, her passion for romantic tales and her steadfast faith were not, as Morrigan would have it, evidence that she was foolish, or mad, or an idiot. Her eyes were clear, and she had seen much of the world that was ugly, sordid, or banal. For her to consistently choose the beautiful and the good –especially in the company of a bunch of cynics, stoics, pragmatists and heathens—displayed a strength of character in Leliana that belied her soft and gentle ways. With the exception of Morrigan, every one of the Mage's companions had been checked upon that strength, and had yielded to some degree.

* * *

The Warden's plan after the Deep Roads, as far as she had one, was to make a gradually diminishing circle around Redcliffe, stopping to gather information, supplies or salable items as opportunity or necessity permitted. Their next logical stop, then, was the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad –or what remained of it, anyway. She had visited it briefly during her quest for the Anvil of the Void, when she and Morrigan found themselves short of items required for their talents and Orzammar's merchants had failed her. At that time the Tower was still a shambles; it looked as if barely any progress had been made in cleaning up the mess left by the wave of abominations that had struck the Circle. Since then, the Mage had had constant assurance from Emissary Pether that everything was fine at the Tower, that she shouldn't worry, there would be plenty of Mages ready to fight the Archdemon when it came time. But the Tranquil, of course, wouldn't worry if all the Mages in Ferelden were dead and rotting, and the Archdemon goosing him from behind. She needed to assess the situation for herself.

To reach the Tower from Orzammar, the company had to come round Lake Calenhad from the north. Before it dipped back south, the road made a hook through a densely wooded land, cleft with small watercourses and heavy with undergrowth. On their last trip through, the early leaves and water grasses were just beginning to flourish; now, frogs croaked unseen from the mould, the sunlight fell in a green veil through the canopy, and the rush and trickle of water was everywhere. The Mage did not have the chance to enjoy it for long, however. As they topped a steep rise, from which another streamlet leapt to lose itself in the folds of land below, they heard mens' voices raised in harsh, mocking tones. There was the sound of a scuffle, then a sharp, frightened yelp.

With a swift glance back at her companions, the Mage crept to the edge of the rise and looked down. A slight rustle in the grass to her right indicated that Loghain had joined her, surprisingly quiet in his heavy armor. It was clear which of those below had yelped; he was the only unarmed man of the lot, and he was being jostled and pushed between the arms and gauntlets of some half-dozen soldiers, all bearing the same crest on their armor and shields. The Mage looked at Loghain, whose face wore a deep frown.

"I know that man," he said in a low voice. "That's Elric Maraigne, one of Cailan's honor guard. He was at Ostagar, close by the king –until the battle started, anyway. Maker only knows how he got out alive."

"I recognize him," nodded the Mage, "and the King's colors, though I would never remember what he was called. I find I'm terrible with names." Mac Tir shot her a wry face at this. "But then who are those soldiers harassing him? Do you recognize their livery?"

"I do," he answered, "though it's hardly necessary, given where we are. Those are Bann Loren's men."

The Mage from the Circle Tower shrugged at him with open palms. Similarly blank stares greeted him from the Marsh Witch, the sister from Orlais, the assassin from Antiva, the Qunari, the golem and the Dwarf. Alpha panted up at them as helpfully as he could. Loghain briefly put a hand to his eyes.

"Loren," he explained. "Bann of these parts between the plains and the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad. Bit of an opportunistic little weasel, though not as ambitious as some. He likes to lurk here in his forest hideaway and move howsoever the political winds happen to blow."

"Hmm," said Zevran as the others began to join them in observing the scene below. "This Bann must not have received the news, then, that supporters of the Grey Wardens are no longer fair game."

"Possibly," agreed Loghain. "But since Elric is still dressed for Ostagar, I'd guess that he was captured early, and has only just managed to escape." The Warrior smiled grimly. "The soldiers won't take kindly to that, no matter what the circumstances."

The Mage tapped her fingers on her staff. "We probably shouldn't just let them have their fun, should we?" she mused.

"I suppose not," said Mac Tir, "though I still would like to know how Elric managed to save his skin, when all of his fellows were slain."

"Well, you won't get a chance to ask him if we stay here."

"True," he conceded.

"Does all this talk mean we finally get to kill something?" asked Shale aloud, hefting a large boulder in her hand.

At the sound of her voice, the heads of the men below all snapped up to peer in their direction. "Wait—" shouted the Mage as Shale took aim. "Don't hit the unarmed man!" But it was too late: as soon as his comrades began sprinting toward the intruders, the soldier nearest to Elric ran him swiftly through with his sword. The former king's guard sank to the ground, clutching his abdomen. His attacker, satisfied that his prey would not be going anywhere, nodded smugly and ran to join his mates. Because of this delay, he missed being maimed by Shale's boulder, and was the last of Bann Loren's men to fall that afternoon. After he was down, Loghain used his leather belt to clean the blood off the Starfang.

A racking cough from Elric interrupted their looting. The Mage and Loghain glanced at each other and nodded; leaving their routine to the others, they approached the injured man, who was attempting to rise. At the sight of the Wardens, he hitched in a gasp and coughed again, falling back on his elbows to stare at them. The Mage scanned his wounds and shook her head. With her limited healing skills, all she could do for him would be to ease his pain a while.

Elric's eyes were round with wonder. "You!" he croaked in disbelief. "You were at Ostagar with the Grey Wardens, one of Duncan's new recruits. Thank you. I –didn't expect the Bann's men to notice my escape so quickly. I tried to hide here in the woods after the battle, but there wasn't time. And now I'm a dead man."

"You aren't dead yet," observed Loghain gruffly.

"Why were you hiding?" asked the Mage.

"You were there in Ostagar," answered Maraigne bitterly. "You know how things went. For me, it was either this, or die in some Darkspawn's belly, or be hung as a deserter."

The Mage looked sharply at him. "You deserted?"

Elric let out a thick grunt and spat blood onto the forest floor. "Better a deserter than a traitor, right, Loghain?" he sneered. "I fled the battlefield when you betrayed us. I abandoned my men, and Cailan with them. He was my King, my friend," he said plaintively.

"At least I took my men with me," retorted Mac Tir. "You should have grown a spine and done the same, soldier."

"It's not your fault they died," said the Mage, but looked directly at neither man when she said it.

Loghain's stern expression grew suddenly somber. "It was a fool's battle," he told Maraigne, "lost before it begun. Others are to blame for that, not you."

The former king's guard sighed. "I know," he admitted. "The Darkspawn were too many. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew in the end, there would be no victory at Ostagar." He shook his head sadly in remembrance. "Maker," he said. "All that time in Bann Loren's prison and I couldn't stop thinking about all they suffered that one dark night."

"We don't always get to choose our deaths," said Loghain dryly.

"No, perhaps not," nodded Maraigne. He struggled once more to raise himself from the ground and face the Warden. "But I've been given the chance to set things right," he said. "If it's the likes of you who sees me to my final hour, perhaps things happen for a reason. The king entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said, it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens."

The Mage frowned. "Why didn't he just give the key to Duncan?" she asked.

"He didn't get the chance," said Elric. "Duncan was too busy with the new recruits, and keeping Loghain at bay." The Mage's frown deepened; Loghain rolled his eyes and looked away. "Whatever his reasoning," continued Elric, "it's me Cailan entrusted it to."

"Is this chest important?" asked the Warden.

"Hah!" barked Loghain. "It's where the whelp kept his daddy's sword." His voice was heavy with derision. "Cailan didn't even carry it into the battle –said he was saving it for the _Archdemon_." He shook his head in disgust. "No doubt it's still there," he said, "wrapped in pretty velvet."

The Mage considered. "Do you think we should attempt to retrieve it?" she wondered.

"Maric's sword. . ." murmured Loghain. "What a prize for the Darkspawn _that_ would be."

"If anyone can," said Elric stoutly, "it's you, Grey Warden. Ostagar's probably crawling with Darkspawn by now and—" he coughed again, more weakly this time— "and I'm afraid I would not make the journey. But more than the sword," he continued urgently, "there was a secret compartment where he kept documents concerning his dealings with Empress Celene and the Orlesians."

The Mage, who had been leaning over the old soldier so that he would not have to sit upright, stood back in shock. Loghain, on the other hand, took a menacing step closer, his bloodstained armor and fierce glaring eyes filling the vision of the wounded man on the ground. "Oh, _really_?" he snarled. "And these papers were to be delivered to the Grey Wardens if Cailan fell, were they?" His piercing gaze fell now on the Mage, who was too stunned to do more than shake her head helplessly.

After a few seconds Mac Tir curled his lip, expelled a breath like an angry bear's, and wrested his eyes from his commander's. Elric received their full force once again; the Mage could see him recoiling. "Do you still have this key?" she asked the man over Loghain's bristling shoulder.

Elric's face fell. "I was afraid," he confessed. "I thought I would lose it on the battlefield, so I stashed it in the camp." He chuckled sheepishly. "The Maker has a sense of humor, though, doesn't he? I suppose it's for the best, in the end –had I kept it, it would be in Bann Loren's hands by now. Please," he begged. "It's probably still there."

The Mage looked skeptical. "You don't think the Darkspawn found it?"

"I hope not," Maraigne replied. "Would they know how to work the lock even if they did?" The Warden's nod conceded that he had a point. Elric raised himself onto one elbow, using the other hand to draw landmarks in the air. "The key's behind a loose stone in the base of a statue, near the Magi encampment." Mac Tir grunted in recognition.

"So if we were to go back there," asked the Mage, "you know the statue he's talking about? You'd be able to find this key?"

Loghain gritted his teeth, but nodded. "It's not a place I thought I'd be returning to so soon," he said harshly, "and least of all with you, Grey Warden. If it's not too much to ask of a commanding officer," he sneered, "just keep the moralizing to a minimum."

Any response that the Mage might have had for that remark was interrupted by Elric. "It is vital," he insisted, "that the king's documents do not fall into the wrong hands." Both Wardens offered snorts of agreement to that declaration. "As for Maric's sword," continued Maraigne, "it is too powerful to be pawed at by those monsters. Same for the king's other arms and armor. And," he finished sorrowfully, "if you happen to find Cailan's body, see it off. He was our king. He shouldn't be left to rot amidst the Darkspawn filth."

The Mage assured him that the Wardens would do everything in their power to properly dispose of the documents, the sword, and the king –provided the Archdemon spared them. Elric coughed out first his thanks, and eventually his life. Not even Zevran or Morrigan felt it necessary to loot his corpse.

* * *

It was after nightfall when the company reached the ferry landing on the eastern shore of Lake Calenhad. Kester the ferryman looked doubtfully at the crowd of them, especially at the massive forms of the golem and the Qunari. Since their visit was merely a courtesy call, the Mage agreed that they need not all go across, so Sten and Shale remained on shore, much to Kester's relief. Oghren also elected to stay behind; his eyes were already straying to the Spoiled Princess, where he would be able to get a fresh pint and try out a few stale lines on an old girlfriend of his who was now the barmaid.

The rest of the company boarded the ferry and Kester took his place at the stern oars. The Mage knelt on the seat at the bow and watched the shore, the Princess, and the forms of her companions recede into the distance. Alpha joined her, placing his front paws on the gunwale and baring his teeth into the slight breeze that skimmed across the lake. His joy leapt to fresh heights when the other Warden squeezed between him and the corner of the bow, plunked his broad armored hand on Alpha's skull and began to scratch him behind the ears. The Mage suppressed a grin and applied her somewhat lesser scratching skills to the Mabari's hindquarters. In the end, the more experienced fingers of the Warrior won out; the heavy hound leaned so far into Loghain's hand that he lost his balance and nearly collapsed on his friend. This earned a shout from Kester as the ferryboat tipped dramatically to starboard. The Mage laughed, but called Alpha down in the interest of staying dry.

Loghain was smiling again for the first time since the encounter with Elric. Though she regretted potentially spoiling his mood, the Mage felt it necessary to continue some threads of their earlier conversation. She cleared her throat; Loghain, planted squarely in the corner of the bow with an arm braced on each edge, looked at her serious face and raised an eyebrow.

"' _It is vital that the king's documents do not fall into the wrong hands_ ': that's what Elric said," she began. "If the Darkspawn were to get a hold of them, it would mean nothing; to others, however, they _could_ have great importance –depending on what was in them."

Loghain's features twisted with distaste. "Loath as I am to revisit the scene of that accursed night," he said heavily, "I am curious to see what dealings with the Orlesians are detailed in those papers that Cailan took such care to keep safe –and to see delivered to the _Wardens_ if he fell."

The Warden set her jaw and gave him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow of her own in defiance. "I am equally as curious," she replied, "to see to what plans I was expected to become a party –by association if nothing else."

"You insist that you were told nothing of this?" he challenged her.

The Mage gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "By whom?" she snorted. "Duncan? The man who was so forthcoming about everything else involving the Grey Wardens?" She rolled her eyes. "Hardly. _If_ he was involved in whatever Cailan was brewing, and was not merely acting as a courier, he did not tell me of it. I doubt he had told Alistair either –Alistair worshiped the man. I cannot see that worship continuing if he knew that Duncan had dealings with the Empress on Cailan's behalf."

Loghain did not offer his opinion on that theory. The Mage saw the thunder building up in his eyes, however, and mentally cursed Cailan for leaving even the most circumstantial evidence that might cause Loghain's old suspicions about the Grey Wardens to resurface. And Duncan. . .she frowned, troubled. No: she still could not believe that Duncan would be a knowing accomplice to political intrigue. She would not believe it, unless given proof. The Mage sighed. Her fellow Warden remained silent, which was about as much as she could hope for at the moment, she supposed. Hesitantly, she broached her next subject.

"There is also the matter of Maric's sword, which _could_ be used against us by the Darkspawn. Is it really as powerful as Elric said?"

Loghain's expression cleared; he nodded. "It is certainly not something to leave by the wayside, if you can help it," he said. "Not only because of its power, of course; but because it was Maric's, and Maric freed this nation with it in his hand."

The Mage blinked at him, unexpectedly touched. "You speak of Maric the way Alistair did of Duncan –with even more feeling, if possible," she said gently. "Even after all these years, and all that you yourself have done, is Maric still your hero?"

"He was my friend," answered Loghain. "If he'd wanted to conquer the Fade, I would have led the charge."

"You also freed this nation, at Maric's side," she countered, and then looked somberly at her hands. "Yet that was not enough for the Banns to accept you as their Regent, or to stand behind you to face the Darkspawn," she reflected. "Why was that, do you suppose? Was it really just because Maric was a Theirin and you are not?"

Loghain shook his head ruefully. "There are men who inspire such devotion that everyone around would lay down their lives for him," he told her. "And there are men who come and go from this world, and no one notes it. What makes them so?" He turned up his empty hands and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." For a moment, his eyes lowered and his gaze dropped to his side; the Mage could see the corners of his mouth pull down briefly in a grimace and then hitch up. He blinked. When he faced his commander again, the eyes that regarded her were clear and steady. "Maric was remarkable," he said simply. "That's all I can say of him."

The Mage recalled suddenly that Loghain had compared _her_ to Maric after her defeat of him in the Landsmeet duel. At the time, his remark had barely registered with her; she had had too many other, more immediate concerns. Now for the first time she began to understand the enormity of the compliment he had paid her –one that, she was sure, he did not dispense lightly. Staggered and humbled, she sat back against the bow of the ferry and watched the Tower loom ever nearer ahead of them. In addition, she thought, while Loghain might believe that _she_ possessed that elusive quality that inspired devotion, he obviously did not believe the same of himself. According to him, Maric could have gotten the Banns to follow him after the disaster at Ostagar just by asking; Loghain had had to use brute force, and he had failed. But his attitude towards Maric was not bitter; he clearly felt that this was the proper state of affairs: someone else, someone who inspired devotion, providing the vision while he, Loghain, did all in his power to realize it.

Thinking of Ostagar and the Landsmeet, the Mage looked curiously at her fellow Warden. "How did you meet Maric?" she asked him.

Loghain blinked in surprise at the question, and then answered matter-of-factly: "I was hunting –well, poaching, to be entirely honest—when a boy my own age came stumbling out of the woods," he said, and then chuckled. "He was so dirty, you'd have thought he'd been dug up out of the ground."

The Mage smiled at the image, and at the fond expression on Mac Tir's face. "What was he running from?" she prompted him.

Loghain's smile faded; both his face and his voice grew dark. "The traitorous boot-lickers who'd just murdered the Queen," he growled, "though I didn't know it at the time. He was bloody, exhausted, and obviously being hunted. I offered to take him to my father's camp."

"And that boy was Ferelden's future savior?" asked the Mage, teasing only a little.

"Yes," answered Loghain sincerely. "I didn't find out who he was for a while though," he added.

"I don't suppose he had to nearly kill you first," mused the Warden.

"No," the Warrior agreed with a smirk. "I would have thrashed him, anyway; and then where would we be?"

* * *

The Mage had been correct in the assumption she had made at Soldier's Peak: the news had obviously spread about the outcome of the Landsmeet. She was relieved to find that no one in the Circle Tower reacted with surprise or foolish words at the sight of Loghain Mac Tir.

She found the First Enchanter talking with Knight-Commander Gregoir in the front hall. Both men addressed her awkwardly as "Warden"; they and she seemed overly conscious of their relative circumstances. The Mage was relieved to see real progress this time in reclaiming the Tower after the catastrophic events of the recent past. In a way, however, seeing the Tower almost back to normal made her more uneasy than had its devastation; it was much easier for her now to remember that she had been arrested on her last night of residence here, and nearly shipped off to Aeonar –or even made a Tranquil. She faced the men from whose judgment she had only been saved by Duncan, and questioned them calmly about their ability to properly honor the Grey Warden treaties. They assured her in no uncertain terms that they would be able to spare enough Mages for the battle. The Warden saw the eyes of both men stray at times to a spot over her right shoulder, where she knew Loghain stood silently.

The formalities concluded, First Enchanter Irving offered the Mage a small, knowing smile. "I understand that your efforts in Orzammar were equally successful," he said. "Quite an incredible story, actually: finding a Paragon assumed to be dead for centuries, in a part of the Deep Roads that was believed to be a legend? It seems too much to be believed, even from you," he added with a twist of his lips.

The Mage looked at him, puzzled. How could he have known that story? Irving, catching her confusion, coughed politely. "Or perhaps my informant got a little carried away in her retelling of events," he chuckled. "She certainly has a high opinion of you –talks of nothing else, when she doesn't have her nose in a book."

Suddenly the Mage understood. "Dagna," she said.

"She would be most disappointed, I think, if you did not look in on her."

Delighted, the Mage took her leave of the First Enchanter and Gregoir and proceeded to the interior of the Tower to look for Dagna. Loghain looked after her with a puzzled frown, seeing that no one moved to follow her except for Alpha, who took a few steps forward and glanced back at his friend with a whine.

"Don't torture yourself," advised Morrigan. "Those two will gab about nothing til the stone falls down around them."

Loghain set his jaw and followed his commander. Morrigan threw up her hands in disgust and went to find the Quartermaster for a trade. Alpha trotted along at the Warrior's side, pleased not to have to choose between his Wardens.

The Mabari sniffed out his mistress in the apprentices' quarters. The lateness of the hour meant that most of the apprentices were either in bed or preparing for it, but there was still a considerable amount of chatter and activity, especially at the end of the room where the older ones bunked. Loghain found the Mage standing at the darkened end nearest the younger children, most of whom were twitching in their sleep. She was staring in the direction of a small group of jostling teenagers. No one seemed to take any notice of her.

She looked up and smiled at her fellow Warden's approach. "Dagna isn't here," she whispered. "I imagine she must still be in the library, if no one has found her and kicked her out. I just—" she broke off. "They did their best to protect the children," she continued in a low voice. "Most of them seem to have survived; which makes sense, seeing as the trouble began farthest away from them, at the top of the Tower."

"What exactly happened here?" asked Loghain. "I heard reports, rumors, but—"

"It was Uldred."

"So it's true, then."

As they left the apprentices' quarters and proceeded to the library, the Mage confirmed the story: Uldred had tried to convince the First Enchanter and the others to side with Loghain, saying that he had promised them freedom from the Templars in return. Wynne had spoken up against the Regent ["And what happened to that old busybody, anyway?" asked Mac Tir. "I had heard she was traveling with you." "She was," replied the Mage, "but we had a difference of opinion, and she left us."] Irving had rejected Uldred's proposal, upon which Uldred had used blood magic to wrest control of the meeting and had torn open the Veil, summoning demons to help him. As usually happened in these cases, the demons possessed him and the other Mages, turning them into abominations, which then proceeded to sweep through the Tower, corrupting or destroying everything they saw.

Loghain looked solemnly around at the patched-up remains of the first floor, still eerily silent with most of the Tower' occupants gone. "This was your home, wasn't it?" he asked the Mage softly.

"Since I was six years old, yes."

He frowned. "That's a bit young to be taken away," he said. "I thought most Mages came to the Circle at ten or eleven."

"I kept causing things to be struck by lightning."

Mac Tir let out a bark of amusement. "Yes, well, they haven't exactly trained that out of you, have they?"

The Mage laughed. They reached the first set of bookshelves in the library, confirmed that Dagna was not hiding amongst them, and moved on.

"I am sorry," said Loghain with feeling.

The Mage felt surprisingly lighthearted. "You should have seen it a couple of months ago," she said. "It looked like the Dead Trenches in here. They're rebuilding fairly well, considering."

Loghain gave her a sad smile.

A squeal from the next stack of books gave the Warrior a start; his astonishment increased when the source proved to be a young Dwarf who shot up from her hiding place and launched herself at them, pigtails bouncing. She addressed the Mage in near-worshipful tones, thanking her again and again for arranging the Dwarf's apprenticeship with the First Enchanter, and bubbling with enthusiasm over the wonders of the Circle. The Mage absorbed all this with an indulgent smile.

"I hope it wasn't too depressing for you when you first arrived?" she asked when Dagna was forced to pause for breath. "It was quite a mess in here for a while."

"Oh, there's been _so_ much to do!" exclaimed the Dwarf. "It was quite a lot for the poor Mages to handle, especially after everything they went through, and with so few of them left. But I've been assisting with the rebuilding process practically since I arrived –though the First Enchanter still leaves me plenty of time for study in the evenings," she added. "The First Enchanter says I've been a tremendous help," she continued proudly, "especially in organizing the younger children. My stature gives me the proper perspective as to how that particular resource can best be used." She cocked a bright eye up at the Warrior.

The Mage nodded appreciatively. "So you're behind all the progress I've seen since my last visit," she said warmly. "I should have known. Thank you, Dagna." The girl beamed, and then leaned towards the Mage as though imparting a great and breathless secret.

"As a reward, the First Enchanter is allowing me to implement a theory I've devised about the practice rooms here in the Tower," she confided in a whisper. "I've discovered that the rooms were designed using an older version of Magister Gwyrnir's _Magical Mechanics and Engineering_ ," she explained. "Recent study has shown that even the smallest variations in the plane of the reflective surface can greatly affect the rebound angle of misdirected spells. This includes even the tiny planes and angles of an ordinary, unpolished block of stone." She waved her hands at the Tower walls; her voice rose as her enthusiasm got the better of her. "By polishing the stone to a smooth, uniform surface, modern engineers have been able to reduce the incidence of practice-room accidents by nearly thirty percent in some cases!" Dagna beamed again, rubbing her hands together gleefully. "The First Enchanter is going to let me test my theory on one of the rooms used by the youngest apprentices, where most of the misdirected spells are bound to occur," she declared. "If the improvement is significant, he may let me redesign all the practice rooms in the Tower!"

The Mage nodded again with heartfelt approval. "Don't forget to consider the windows in the upper chambers, when you get there," she admonished the Dwarf.

"The—"

"Windows. Many of the rooms in the upper levels have them, including the practice rooms. They're not always open, of course, but—"

"Oh, but of course!" gasped Dagna. "Even closed, the difference in composition between stone and glass would present a completely different reflective surface! I never would have thought of it! Well, of course I wouldn't –where I come from, everything is bound by the stone, eventually," she giggled. She curled a knuckle to her mouth and knitted her brow. "And then, if the windows are open, and one has to consider air, or even _wind_ –oh my." She shook her head. "The First Enchanter was right to have me start downstairs, I can see that now. Well, of course he was," she laughed. "So many variables! I must begin studying immediately! Um –does this library have any books on meteorology and wind resistance?"

The Mage led Dagna away to one of the inner stacks. Loghain had remained frozen during the entire exchange, and did not follow her. When she returned, she found him leaning against a bookcase, shaking with silent laughter.

"What's so funny?"

Mac Tir caught his breath and wiped his eyes. "Two chicks from the same clutch, you are," he chortled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He waved a hand weakly in the direction Dagna had gone. "You talk exactly like that Dwarf when you're on _explaining_ something," he replied, still chuckling. "Maker help me, I would never have thought there'd be two of you. Why do I get the feeling that you and Dagna would have been inseparable, if she'd come to the Circle while you were still an apprentice?"

Now it was the Mage's turn to smile sadly. Loghain seemed to harbor the impression of her having had friends here. She now saw that this had perhaps never happened to her. Not true friends anyway –only followers, admirers, at best.

As they walked back towards the outer chamber, Loghain fell silent. Suddenly he halted, expelling an angry puff of breath. The Mage tilted her head questioningly at him. Loghain was staring at the floor with lowered brows. His shoulders slumped wearily. "It seems as though everything I've touched since Ostagar has led somehow to suffering and death," he complained. "Whereas you –everywhere we go, someone thanks you for a service you've done them."

The Warden let out a short, rueful laugh. "I know a camp full of Dalish Elves who might argue with you on that point –if they had breath left in their bodies to do so," she answered. "As for Orzammar: Yes, I found their lost Paragon and ended their civil war by choosing them a king. But that king's first act upon ascending the throne was murder. He executed his rival –a decent man, by all appearances—before he ever offered a hint of a threat."

"That was not your fault," admonished Mac Tir. "And it _is_ a common practice, by the way –especially in Orzammar. Your insistence on setting my daughter's rival free was the aberration. One which may still have consequences later."

"And what about you? Anora made you her rival as well, in the end."

"I was _not_ set free; I was released into your custody."

The Mage was taken aback; she had forgotten that Loghain was traveling with their company by force, as a punishment. Evidently, he had not.

"Well," she continued, "the rival's followers certainly held us responsible, anyway. They set on us wherever they found us, and we slaughtered them all –nearly every warrior, I believe, from an entire noble house."

Loghain said nothing.

"Oghren killed his wife because of me; did he tell you that?" she added after a pause. Loghain blinked; the Mage nodded. "I had two Paragons to choose from," she explained, "his wife and another. I chose the other; Branka fought us over it, and Oghren cut her head off." She sighed. "Even Dagna's story isn't entirely a happy one," she said bitterly. "She is now casteless, as you know, and once she's memorized every book in this library she may want to go home, but she can't. Her parents are furious with me. If I hadn't gotten her father to put Sten's armor together before he found out I was responsible for Dagna, he would never have done it."

"All right," exclaimed Loghain, waving his hands in surrender. "Your point is taken. We're both agents of chaos, destruction and calamity."

The Mage shook her head. "It's the Blight that's doing it, not us," she said to him. "Or so I tell myself. Maker help me."

"Maker help us both, White Demon," replied Mac Tir solemnly.

The Warden gave a slight, ironic bow. "At your service, Black Knight."

* * *

The Mage had learned the recipe for a strong protective potion against fire spells, but was missing some of the ingredients. Upon returning to the front hall, she paid her own visit to the Quartermaster. Loghain and Alpha followed, but the Warrior saw little of use to himself, and so concentrated on his commander's purchases. The Mage bought an impressive number of fire crystals and a peculiar type of earthenware flask, trading what the company had looted from Bann Loren's men and paying out a small amount of coin to make up the difference. As the Quartermaster moved to fill the order, the Mage's eyes strayed longingly to a staff that was propped against the wall behind them. Though obviously untouched for some time, it still looked magnificent, traced with many runes and exuding a live, rich glow that captured the eye even under its dust. The Mage accepted her purchases from the merchant and gave it one last look of farewell before turning to leave.

"How much is that staff, there?" called out Mac Tir as the Quartermaster moved to his next customer.

"Too much," shushed the Mage. "I don't need it."

"But do we have the coin?" insisted Loghain.

"Just," she confessed with lowered eyes, and then sighed. "But no. I do perfectly well with my current instrument; I have no need of an upgrade."

"Oho," accused Mac Tir. "So your principle on weapons applies to your followers and their swords, but not to yourself and your own instruments?"

" _This_ happens to be a superior staff already."

"But that one is better," he prodded.

"It is," she admitted, "but it's not worth our entire stock of funds. We did not spend a week in the Deep Roads to buy me one staff."

It was nearly time for the senior Mages to retire; with no more prospective customers coming from upstairs, the Quartermaster prepared to close up shop.

"Just a minute," said Morrigan suddenly in a commanding voice. "You there. I see that you have a silver necklace for sale. I wish to try it on."

Both Wardens turned to frown first at each other and then at the Witch, who had sauntered over to the Quartermaster's stall and was fingering a rather plain-looking silver necklace that the Mage was sure she had traded in herself on their last visit. The merchant looked rather put out, until Morrigan leaned deeply over the display table and requested that he help her with the clasp. The Quartermaster stuttered and blushed as he reached behind her long neck, not knowing if she truly meant for him to stare down her front, or merely to try it so that she could blast him through the wall. The Mage rolled her eyes –and spotted Leliana, who was gaily chatting up the nearest group of Templars. Their focus was riveted on the Bard –clearly, they were only too happy to converse with a pretty girl who wasn't a Mage. From the other side of the Quartermaster's stall, the Warden observed Zevran silently watching the proceedings with a sly, loving smile. Then he seemed suddenly to melt into the air. The Mage found herself struggling to remember that he had even been there. The air around the Quartermaster's supply racks looked just a little fuzzy, with tricks and bounces of the light that may or may not be objects moving or merely torches' flicker and dust motes.

From over her shoulder, the Mage heard a soft rumbling voice. "So this is what you've trained your elite force of Blight-quellers to be?" it purred. "Temptresses and thieves?"

She shut her eyes and sighed. "They are, aren't they?"

"Stealing you that staff? Yes, they are."

She set her back to the proceedings and faced her fellow Warden. Loghain possessed the ability to stand at a normal conversational distance but to speak in a low tone, indistinguishable to others but as clear to her as if his mouth were inches from her ear. To a casual observer, they looked as if they might have been discussing the possible merits of applying some of Dagna's improvements to the great front hall.

"It is actually rather sweet of them, in a way," he observed.

"To answer your question, they were like this when I found them."

Mac Tir regarded her sternly. "But you are their commander, their leader," he chided her. "It is your duty to make them better than they could be on their own. Have you taught them nothing in their time with you?" His eyebrows arched reprovingly.

The Warden considered for a moment. "The value of teamwork?" she offered.

Loghain laughed. Various Templars' heads twitched in their direction. The Mage saw a few brows knit, felt more than one set of eyes slide discreetly over at them. The Templar guards squared their shoulders and lifted their chins, determined not to notice anything unusual.

"Are you going to stop them?" asked Mac Tir.

The Warden gritted her teeth. "And risk getting them jailed, or killed? No."

Loghain shook his head sorrowfully. "But what of the poor man's wife and children?" he persisted. "Shall you deprive him of his livelihood?"

Now the Mage bristled in earnest. "The Quartermaster is single," she fumed, "and has been sitting on that staff for _years_ , waiting for someone who'll pay the criminal price he's asking for it."

Her tormentor chuckled softly. "Had your eye on it for a while, have you?"

The Mage looked at her hands. "Yes," she admitted sulkily.

"All the coppers a young Mage could save not enough to melt that cold Quartermaster's heart?"

"I was an apprentice until just before Duncan took me for the Grey Wardens. I had nothing."

"I see," he said. "Well, it's too late now. You'd have to have me arrested too, anyway; I seem to be providing as much of a distraction as either of the young ladies. That Templar in particular," he added, pointing an eyebrow approximately west-northwest, "seems especially fixated."

The Mage cast a casual glance in the indicated direction and flushed, as she realized that the Templar who stood there was Cullen. The man's eyes bored feverishly into them; the Mage could not tell for sure if he was fighting the urge to tear Loghain limb from limb, or to smite her to the Black City for being the most dangerous temptress of them all. Suddenly she decided that she didn't much care.

"He must be captivated by your long, luxurious eyelashes," she suggested.

"Yes, thanks for your help with that earlier, by the way."

The Warden laughed aloud. Cullen stared with even greater intensity. There had been no help that she could give –Leliana had been absolutely right. They did not curl prettily like a woman's (or even like those of some men she had seen), but Loghain's eyelashes were surprisingly long. They reminded the Mage of the short feathers on a raven's breast.

* * *

That night, though they had camped late, the Mage could not sleep. She sat for a long while by the fire with her new staff laid across her lap, gazing into the depths of the newly-polished wood. She was thinking of inspiring devotion and having friends. These companions were for the most part, devoted, and the closest things to true friends she could recall. But the Rogues and the Dwarf were still afraid of her, or at least in awe; and the others for their various reasons still didn't treat her _normally_ as friends do, as she saw other friends in the world behave. Even with each other, they were more familiar than they were with her. She set apart as she always had, watching. Did Maric ever feel like this? Having become a symbol of hope and a figurehead for his country, did he find it impossible just to be a normal person?

But he _had_ had at least one friend, it seemed: someone who had recognized and valued those qualities that made him extraordinary, but had been neither awed nor intimidated by them. Someone who could still remember him as a boy covered in mud, and laugh.

"If your aim is to discourage your followers from future acts of thievery," said a voice, "you're making a poor job of it."

She started, embarrassed. Loghain stood before her with crossed arms, regarding her with a smirk.

"Back with us?" he asked.

"Sorry –short trip into the Fade, I guess."

"Well, wherever you went, you should go there more often, perhaps," he suggested as he moved toward his tent. "You looked damned near pleasant for a moment."

Her mouth opened to cast a glib, dismissive remark after him – _don't worry, it won't happen again—_ but she thought, no. Instead, the Mage looked at the back of Loghain Mac Tir and smiled.

"I'd like that," she said.

[   
](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/art/Unbound-Ch-7-Illustration-216198569)


	8. The Beloved Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some treasures are found, some lost forever. The same goes for Prophets and Warriors. Also, Simon Templeman talks to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _In the game, the crafted items that protect against fire are called Warmth Balms, which to me suggests some kind of salve or rub which the user is supposed to apply topically to the bits he or she doesn't want to get burned –i.e., everywhere. However, since this is highly impractical for combat situations, I have changed the Balms to a potion._
> 
>  _What is not a diversion from canon, however, is the gong. Those who have only played Dragon Age: Origins on the PC will reach a point in this chapter where they will most likely go "Huh? What the –but there isn't—". It is to these readers that I must explain that for console players such as myself, there is no horn on the Mountaintop. There is, however, a gong. . ._
> 
>  _As always, extra special thanks to Josie Lange and to ShiningMoon for beta help; ShiningMoon has also provided yet another fantastic illustration for this chapter, which you can view below. If you like it, please click on it and leave her a comment on deviantART. (Comments on the text are also appreciated, of course!)_
> 
>  _BioWare owns the Dragon Age universe and characters and a few lines of dialogue in this chapter about Anora._

"I'm sorry, Leliana," said the Mage.

"I just don't understand why I can't go with you," whispered the Bard sadly.

"It isn't –it just isn't the time," the Warden answered. "We're going up the mountain on mercenary business. There's a good chance it'll turn bloody. You heard what those cultists are like. They're not likely to just stop sacrificing people to Andraste because we ask them to. And even if we do go all the way to the top, we'll probably be in a hurry to get back down. Is that how you'd want it to be?"

Leliana sighed. "No. I suppose not."

"I _am_ sorry."

The former Chantry sister smiled. "I am disappointed," she said, "but you are right. I would not want to see the Urn of Sacred Ashes when I am covered in blood, and weighted down with the spoils of my kills. Thank you, my friend, for thinking of me."

The Mage's face wore a slightly sick expression as she took her leave of Leliana, and moved to join those whom she had chosen to make a second trip up the mountain. Zevran, Sten, Morrigan and Oghren stood by the entrance to their campsite. Loghain was giving final instructions to Alpha, and promising the Mabari a new treat when he returned.

"Ready for this?" the Mage asked Morrigan, who had donned a bearskin cloak for the journey.

"Tell me again," came Morrigan's voice from under her hood, "why I am being forced to climb this blasted mountain a second time?"

"You know what we'll probably have to do up there. We may need that Revival spell of yours."

"Perhaps I have forgotten it."

"No, you haven't."

The Witch, torn between trying to disqualify herself from this mission and having to suggest that her magical skills were less than they were, expelled a grating breath. "As you command," she muttered.

Loghain joined them just as Sten, who had overheard the Warden's conversation with the Witch, stepped away to his tent. After a moment of rummaging, the Qunari reappeared with a new sword sheathed at his back. Actually, it was a very old-looking sword, but not one the Mage had ever actually seen him wield before. Much to her surprise, he had grudgingly allowed his commander to stow Asala in the Wardens' cache at Soldier's Peak –though he had made it quite clear to Levi Dryden the fate that awaited him if the sword should be damaged or missing when he returned for it. This sword, though it carried an aura of great antiquity, was also obviously powerful and still quite useful. Its sharpened and polished blade was etched on both sides with figures of dragons; Sten had clearly cared for it. Loghain cocked an inquisitorial eye both at it and at the Qunari, but Sten took his usual place at the rear of the travelling party without saying anything.

The delay meant that the Wardens were still in camp when a pair of emissaries arrived from Redcliffe. The Mage had sent a message from the Circle Tower to Anora at the castle, and also to Bodahn, who was doing some trading in the village below, as to where she intended to be camping in three days' time. Bodahn and his cart had not yet joined them, but Eamon's emissary, travelling light and on horseback, had made the journey much more easily. As the knight dismounted, the Mage noted that Pether the Tranquil had hitched a lift on the back of his saddle. Pether slid off the horse as though boneless, his steady but slightly vacant eyes drawn toward the Warden –and specifically, toward the staff she carried in her hand.

"The First Enchanter sent a message to Redcliffe," he said, "saying that if I saw you, I should inquire if you knew anything about a staff that has recently gone missing from the Quartermaster's stall at the Tower." He coughed. "I had thought it an odd request, but—" again his eyes dropped to the Mage's side—"it seems to have been a valid one, after all. Though inquiries are perhaps, now, not necessary."

"Tell Irving he can bill us for it when the Archdemon is dead," barked Loghain, turning away from the emissaries to stalk out of the campsite with Oghren cackling at his side. "Unless you care to try retrieving it yourself," he called back over his shoulder.

Pether glanced at the Mage, who arched an eyebrow at him invitingly. He could not look nervous, but he swallowed once, and his eyelids twitched a bit as he answered. "I do not wish to die," he said. "I shall relay the message."

* * *

The slopes of the mountain on which Haven lay hidden from the world were heavily forested, for the most part; however, farmers had cleared small patches of level ground in terraces as far up the slope as they were able. Reaching one of these, the company was hailed by a shrill voice. They halted, and a young boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen stepped warily out from behind a tree. He held a short bow from which he aimed a tremulous arrow at the party; its tip wavered from one intruder to the other as he eyed them, wary and defensive as a wild dog protecting its pups. Looking past the boy at the field beyond, the Mage could see a handful of much younger children amongst the early crops, weeding. She glanced at Loghain, who had come up beside her and was regarding the boy with the bow. The Warrior in his heavy armor stood very still with his hands at his sides; the Mage held up one of her hands as a signal to the others not to draw their own weapons. Loghain and the boy continued to stare at one another. Where she might once have expected him to scoff at the idea of a stripling with a pointed stick standing up to the Hero of River Dane, the Mage saw only respect and understanding in Loghain's eyes. She recalled the history books mentioning that the Mac Tirs had originally been farmers; perhaps he knew what it was to stand guard in this way.

The lad seemed also to recognize that the big man with the flaming sword would not harm him or his charges. He stepped back, lowered his bow, and nodded curtly without saying a word. Loghain returned the nod; the boy dropped his eyes and sighed. The Mage smiled.

The smaller children by now had spotted the intruders and had huddled together, ready to flee into the forest if necessary. When they saw their guardian relax, they began to push and shove each other towards the strangers so that they approached in a nervous clump, like young quail. The Mage, whose face was hidden by the hood of her cloak, failed to catch their interest; instead, they worked themselves into a delicious hysteria over the more obviously exotic- or frightening-looking members of the party. They craned their necks to squint at Loghain's face over the massive eclipsing arches of his pauldrons, made admiring noises at the Starfang and at Oghren's Genlock maul that was nearly as tall as the Dwarf himself, and pointed excitedly at the dragons adorning the sword at Sten's back. Sten himself was an object of fear and fascination that would make these children the envy of their friends for months to come. Like Loghain, the Qunari regarded them silently and without moving –but then, thought the Mage, he would have conducted himself thus under any circumstances. On this occasion, however, he allowed the children to become accustomed to him, and then solemnly dropped to one knee so that they could get a closer look at his face. They cocked their heads and gaped at the bronze skin that showed above his armor; they peered into his deep-set, violet eyes with wonder. He returned their critical stares and, finding them not to be over-fed, shared a cookie from his pack with each of them.

The older boy remained where he stood in front of Loghain, watching his charges. As they squealed over the cookies, he turned to the Warrior and offered his hand. "I'm Hal," he said stoutly.

Mac Tir took the hand and shook it solemnly. "I'm Loghain," he replied.

The boy drew a breath. "You are," he said. "You _are_ Loghain Mac Tir. I knew it. I—" he stuttered, suddenly bashful, and looked at the ground. "I've read about you in books."

"It's good to meet you, Hal," said the Hero of River Dane.

"But—" Hal looked suddenly, sharply up at him. "Why aren't you in Denerim? There's a war—"

"Against the Darkspawn?" answered Loghain. "Yes. I'm fighting in it."

Hal looked nervously around the edges of the clearing.

"Well, not _right_ now, of course," said Mac Tir with a smile. "I've joined the Grey Wardens. They'll be on the front lines in the fighting, and they need me." His glance flickered at the Mage, whose eyes under her hood rolled towards the heavens.

"The Grey Wardens?" exclaimed Hal. "But that means—" His eyes searched the group of adults; his body froze when he recognized the figure in white. He gulped, the color abruptly draining from his face. Death had been quietly watching him and his charges the whole time.

The Mage, seeing how well a calm, direct stare had worked for Sten and Loghain, slowly lowered her hood.

The boy let out a breathless, high-pitched scream; the younger children turned, saw the Daughter of the Storm, and wailed. Within seconds, the little ones were pelting for the trees, shrieking and covering their heads; Hal followed with his bow, shouting at them to keep them from scattering.

The Mage stood quite still, watching them go. When the clearing was silent again, she lowered her eyes to find Loghain giving her a sympathetic look. She shrugged sadly.

 _Yep, chaos, destruction and calamity, that's me_.

Suddenly she turned the full force of her baleful eyes on him and made a terrible face, hooking her fingers into claws as if a web of lightning bolts would shoot from their tips. In turn, the former Regent leveled his blackest and most vicious scowl at her, hunching his plated shoulders like a charging beast, his nostrils flaring, the scornful, brutal mouth curled, the jaw set and twitching. The Mage fell back, the fingers of one hand pressed to her lips and the other fluttering against her brow: the innocent damsel surprised in the fields by a monster. With a fainting cry, she fled, all elbows and knees, tripping with exaggerated daintiness to hide behind her Sten. As the Qunari frowned down at her undignified lapse, the Mage heard the rough bark of Loghain's laughter.

She looked up with wide, pleading eyes at her protector. "Save me," she whispered breathlessly. Sten's frown deepened.

"I do not understand, _kadan_ ," he admonished her. "You have already demonstrated that you are more than capable of defending yourself against this _bas_. If he is insubordinate, simply thrash him again."

They continued on towards Haven. The Mage smiled at first, despite having just sent a group of farm children into a screaming panic; presently, however, she grew sober and thoughtful again. She stole a casual glance back over her shoulder at her fellow Warden. How did he know so well the way to cheer her up in such a situation? No doubt he was familiar with the feeling of being the scariest person in nearly any gathering; but it was a child's game he had played with her just now. Surely _he_ had never needed such diversions? Suddenly she thought she understood: of course, this man had prior experience with little girls six years old and already so precocious as to frighten those around her.

"What was Anora like as a child?" Her question might have seemed random, irrelevant; but Loghain smiled knowingly.

"So far as anyone could tell," he answered with pride, "she was the undisputed monarch of the whole world. She'd fall, skin her knees, and command them to stop stinging." He chuckled fondly. "It may have worked, too."

"Did she have many friends?"

Mac Tir lowered his eyes, and shrugged. "Gwaren sits in between the Brecilian Forest and the sea," he replied. "It's far from the old Tevinter roads. The village by our keep was never even as big as Redcliffe. There were always a few children around –charcoal burners' sons and daughters, mostly, or the children of servants. They formed into noisy gangs in the courtyard for their games. But Anora never joined them."

The Mage frowned. "Did she not want to, or was she not invited?"

"I don't know," he answered with a sigh. "Children are, in some ways, vicious animals, forming packs and defending them from outsiders. Anora was always an outsider."

"So, there was no one?" the Warden persisted.

Mac Tir gave a curt nod, his mouth twitching up at the corners. "There was Cailan," he answered, "when we stayed in Denerim. She was a few years older than he, and she led him around like a puppy on a leash, having adventures." Somewhat reluctantly, he chuckled again. "They once fought an army of Ogres in the wine cellar. At least, that was her explanation for all the broken bottles down there." The normally piercing eyes were distant as the mountain sky, remembering.

So that, thought the Mage, explained how someone like Anora wound up marrying a man like Cailan. It was a pity that the one person who seemed to desire her friendship was no match for her in character.

 _Although it is possible that she chose_ him _as much as he chose her, knowing precisely what he was_.

As for Loghain, he had been aware of Anora's isolation, and yet was indifferent to it; as long as she was who she wanted to be, he didn't care what she was –or what the world thought of her.

 _But what if she had been a Mage?_ she asked herself. _She may have been precocious, but she is still a "normal", non-magical woman, if an extraordinary one. Do you think he'd be as open-minded if she was felling trees with lightning at the age of five?_

Her mind flashed with several possible scenarios: Loghain, disappointed and ashamed, shipping Anora to the Tower and refusing to acknowledge or speak of her again; Loghain, Templars at his door, loudly protesting that his child had the same right to freedom as any Fereldan; Loghain—

— _telling his daughter that like it or not, this was their lot in life, and she had better just go on to the Circle and be the best Mage she can be._

"I suppose it must have been the same for you, in a way," he said thoughtfully. "Watching from the Tower while the other children played."

"There was nothing to watch from the Tower but the Templars and the lake," she answered. "I suppose the Chantry considered it part of their mercy to us –that we wouldn't feel so isolated, if we couldn't see what we were missing."

He cocked his head skeptically at her. "And did it work?"

"No," she said flatly. Leaving her reverie, she turned her frank gaze full on him; his face, intent, received it without flinching. "We knew what we were," said the Mage. "Even if it weren't for the Templars and the Chantry reminding us, or the Tower walls and the surrounding lake as constant evidence of how far from them the world desired us –kept—" She frowned, and looked away again. "We knew. It is as you said –children always know who is different, who the outsiders are. By the time we reached the Circle, it was too late for any such mercy."

* * *

The Mage tensed as she saw the same man guarding the entrance to Haven village as before. Not only did she recall the man's previous unwelcoming behavior; she was also aware that, upon being grudgingly allowed to pass, her company had proceeded to decimate Haven's armed guard and slaughter a number of civilians at the Chantry. As she readied her staff to defend herself, he hailed her with what almost passed for a smile.

"Welcome back, Warden!" he called out. "A pleasure to see you again, friend of Haven and of the beloved Andraste!"

"This is getting just a bit nauseating," grumbled Loghain. "I hope you know that."

The guard was now calling to the villagers in the square: "Andraste's champion has returned to us!" Again, no show of hostility; just smiles and waves. One tall man put his arms to his chest and bowed in salute. The guard turned back to the Mage and her companions.

"You are very gracious," said the Warden, biting back the rest of her thought – _compared to last time_. Her tone of voice must have finished the sentence for her anyway, however, as the guard lowered his eyes and cleared his throat somewhat sheepishly.

"I admit that when you first came here, I dismissed you as just another nosy flatlander. Shows what I know, eh?" he said with a shrug. "But all of Haven has heard of your service to the beloved Andraste. Why should I not greet you with honor?"

"Before performing this service, I did kill many of your fellows," the Mage reminded him.

The Haven guard bowed his head. "Mistakes were made because you were lost," he replied, "but now you are found, and have been given a place in Andraste's sight."

The Mage suppressed a slight cough. "And –how is Andraste?" she asked politely.

"She is most thankful for her freedom, my lady, and will be restored to her full glory soon. Are you going up to pay your respects?"

Zevran and Morrigan sniggered; Sten rolled his eyes. The Mage shot them all a look.

"We will be going up the Mountain, yes. I think we will visit your shop first, though." Predictably, this earned a sigh from her fellow Warden.

"The shopkeeper will be delighted," said the guard, raising a hand once more to the company. "Farewell, then, and the blessings of the beloved Andraste go with you."

They turned and began to climb the hill towards the only shop in Haven village. "Even Andraste herself is indebted to you?" Loghain wondered aloud. "Huh. And so we're going up the mountain to –what? Collect a reward? The rumor I heard in Denerim was that the _Ashes_ of the Prophet had been found, not the Prophet herself."

The Mage coughed again. "While it is true that we've come back here to collect some treasure to which we could not gain access before," she answered, "because _someone_ didn't bring the right lock-picking tools last time—"

"I told you when we met that I could pick locks," piped in Zevran. "I never said it was a specialty. Legs, I can open with ease; locks, they are sometimes a bit trickier."

"We are also here," the Warden continued, "because I have decided that my actions on our previous visit had consequences that I can neither tolerate nor ignore. I hope to make amends."

"But it is these actions that have made these villagers so grateful," Mac Tir argued. "Not to mention the beloved Andraste."

"That is correct."

"So, won't amending or undoing them cause unhappiness in Haven? Or even in Heaven?"

"The former: most likely," she conceded with a smirk. "The latter –well, I'll just have to wait and see, won't I?"

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Not really, no."

They entered the shop and were greeted enthusiastically by the shopkeeper. Loghain groaned in disgust and decided that his commander would be safe enough in such a place without him. As he followed the Dwarf back outside, the Warden saw him reaching into the pouch at his belt for one of the dried, cured leaves that he liked to chew. Sten, however, remained with her. Noting that the shop sold health poultices similar to the ones that she and Morrigan made, the Mage ordered a few more to be added to her pack. As they were being fetched, the Warden looked thoughtfully at the Qunari standing guard by the door. Glancing at the shopkeeper, she stepped over to her lieutenant and beckoned him to lower his ear so that she could speak to him without being overheard.

"Sten," she asked him, "how soon after you drank the dragon's blood did you feel the effects, gain Kolgrim's knowledge, whatever it was that taught you how to fight like these Haven warriors?"

"The effect is still growing in me, _kadan_ ," answered the giant softly. "As I master one technique, I suddenly find myself with knowledge of another. It is most disconcerting. I imagine it to be similar to what Mages feel when they are possessed by a demon."

The Mage was taken aback. "I'm so sorry, Sten, I had no idea. Why didn't you say something before?"

"You did not ask."

She frowned. "So is it really that uncomfortable?"

"The knowledge has been useful, and the intrusions brief," he replied. "I do not feel any loss of control; I am always myself. So it is tolerable. I would be quite disturbed, however," he added with a look of great concern, "if I was suddenly impelled to act irrationally or foolishly, and I was powerless to stop myself."

The Mage bit her lip and pretended to speculate. "Like. . .parading through camp on your hands, singing one of Leliana's love songs?" she asked.

Sten's eyes widened with alarm. "I have _never_ done such a thing. . .have I?"

"If you were truly possessed, you wouldn't know if you had, would you?"

His look of genuine distress made her relent. "No, Sten, you haven't," she reassured him. "And I would be sure to let you know if you did. Besides, demons only fully possess _weak_ Mages. I imagine it is the same for whatever effect the dragon's blood has on you."

"That is true, _kadan_. You and I, of course, need not worry. Thank you for setting my mind at ease."

The Mage swallowed her laughter and nodded solemnly. "But so," she continued as soon as she was able, "how soon after drinking the blood did you _start_ to gain this knowledge?"

"Almost immediately," he answered, "though it was slow, and unformed."

"Do you think a good instructor might have helped?"

Her Sten looked sharply at his pupil. "Proper instruction and study always helps. You know this, _kadan_."

"Excellent," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear. Thank you, Sten."

She then bought all the empty flasks the shopkeeper had, plus several nature salves, some spirit balm, and a couple of bottles of wine.

They passed the Haven Chantry by, and stopped for lunch at a stream near the entrance to the ruined Temple of Andraste. At this point the Mage emptied the contents of all the bottles she just purchased into the water, except for the health poultices and the wine. The latter she split between her companions to accompany their meal –which meant that everyone but Oghren shared one of the bottles between them, while the Dwarf (after grumbling at its not being ale) clung to the neck of the other and refused to relinquish it.

Loghain watched as his commander serenely sent a measure of green liquid into the rushing water, and then rinsed the bottle from which it had come.

"Have you something against the fish in this stream?" he asked her.

The Mage smiled. "It's not poison," she assured him. "Actually, it's a potion that protects against poison and other nature spells. So in essence, I'm doing the inhabitants of this stream a favor, as some of them now stand a chance of surviving when Oghren relieves himself in it."

After lunch, they entered the temple. The Wardens' company had been attacked in nearly every room on their previous visit, and in defending themselves had cleared much of the lower chambers of the Temple of living things. Some disciples of Andraste were moving about in the ruins, putting as much as they could to rights; they were mercifully few, though, and the Mage could send her Rogue unchallenged to pick the locks on a few interesting-looking chests that had baffled him the last time. Even with better tools, however, Zevran still had trouble with the more stubborn specimens. As he struggled with one of them, cursing softly in Antivan, the others kept a nervous lookout. Finally Loghain sighed and, waving the Elf out of the way, strode over and bashed the lock off its hasp with the pommel of his sword. He and Zevran exchanged stiff, ironic bows as the Elf wrenched the chest open and began to pore through its contents.

After this, the company proceeded through the chambers at an increased pace. In addition to Loghain's assistance, the Mage found that she could melt some locks with the same fire spell she had used to light the beacon in the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar.

"Not that I'd dare to question your decisions—" grunted the Warrior as his sword-pommel descended for the second time on the hasp of a particularly tough lock, "—or to lobby for the Orlesian's company –but if she wanted to see this Urn so badly, why not make use of her superior skills instead of bringing the impious and incompetent Elf?"

The Mage winced at the noise and concussion of Loghain's efforts and glanced out the door of the room, checking the hallway for wandering cultists. "We're operating on the whim of the Archdemon, as you know," she said evasively. "We can't afford to get bogged down in delays or distractions."

"You mean she'd want to spend too much time mooning over the Ashes."

"Something like that."

The caverns above the Temple were more densely populated, but these chambers contained little of interest for looters or thieves, and so the Warden was content to pass through, waving politely at those who acknowledged her. Therefore, though their climb was steeper, their progress was swifter, so that they soon reached a junction high up the mountain from which the Mage knew her company had only explored one exit. That exit had led them to Father Kolgrim, and Kolgrim had led them straight to their meeting with the High Dragon Andraste and the Urn of Sacred Ashes. They had never come back through these caverns to discover what the other path off this junction might offer.

As the Mage, Zevran, and Morrigan worked out an equal distribution of empty bottles and flasks with the heavier gear and looted items in their packs, Sten kept watch along all three branches of the tunnel. Not bothering to wait, Loghain and his fellow Berserker had already started up the unexplored tunnel. The Mage had just hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and begun to follow when she heard a familiar rasping shriek, like the cawing of a monstrous crow. Startled yells from both man and Dwarf were followed by a roar of unknown voices, and the unmistakable crackle of lightning.

"Hey, we're with her!" Oghren shouted at their attackers as the Mage came rushing into the chamber. "Champion of the beloved Andraste right here! Don't y –ah, sod it."

The shrieking had come from two Drakes, younger male dragons, who had issued from recesses in a large, domed chamber. These held the Warriors at bay while a pair of Reavers with axes advanced on them from the flank and a Mage perched on a dais at the far end of the chamber sent lightning bolts into their midst. The Warden quickly put the Drakes to sleep; they would awaken in moments, she knew, but it would give her time to move her fighters out of their trap and into better position. No longer threatened by the Drakes' fire or trampling feet, Loghain and Oghren turned to their commander.

"Get them!" she shouted, pointing at the Reavers. "Morrigan, Zevran, into the chamber behind me!" Her arms now swept toward the Drakes. "When they wake up, keep your distance and keep them out of commission until help comes. Sten, with me! The Mage!"

Sten nodded and followed her up the steps to the dais, a solid wall of growling muscle. Loghain and Oghren bellowed, their rage flaring in unison as each targeted a Reaver and charged. As the axe-wielding cultists faltered and fled down the tunnel with the Bersekers in pursuit, Morrigan and Zevran streaked between the Drakes and into the chamber just as the young dragons began to stir. Morrigan's ice spells and the Elf's arrows kept them occupied.

That left only the cultist Mage, and he was a powerful one. As she sprinted up the steps toward him, the Warden shot a paralyzing spell at his chest, but as soon as she had aimed her staff, her opponent sent forth a fountain of shimmering magic from his that fell around him in a dome, encasing him. The Warden's spell did not just fail to paralyze him; it bounced off the spell shield completely. She ducked as it rebounded past her ear and struck one of the columns that supported the high ceiling of the chamber. The cultist Mage stood smugly in an apparently impenetrable shell; the tip of his staff now emitted a spark that the Warden knew signified a lightning spell on the way.

The spell shield may have been impenetrable against magic, but it stood no chance against a sword-pommel swung by an irritated Qunari. The blunt end of Yusaris struck the cultist Mage between the eyes and he toppled over with a grunt. The spell shield faltered and died as the great two-handed blade made short work of its caster. The Warden turned back to check on the Drakes and found one of them fallen; Morrigan and Zevran, unharmed, were toying with the other. Morrigan took particular delight in freezing the gullets of drakes and dragons just as they prepared to spout fire at her. This Drake was choking even now while the Witch giggled and the Elf snuck around behind it to sever a tendon or a wing.

" _Kadan—_ "

Sten was holding something out to her. Judging that the remaining Drake was in good hands, the Mage turned back to the Qunari and his kill. He held the object away from himself, as if it was an animal that might bite him. It was vibrating slightly. She stepped closer and peered at it. It was a sword, but unlike any she had ever seen. Its blade was curved like a tooth or claw, or like some of the long, thin knives she had seen the Dalish use. But it was clearly a sword –as long as the Starfang, and just as deadly. She could not take her eyes from it.

"It's –incredible, Sten, truly," she murmured, and then shook her head. "But I don't think this is his sword, either."

"Of course not," Sten huffed. "It is yours."

The Mage blinked. A sword –for her? Suddenly she remembered a small, cluttered chamber in the Brecilian Ruins; a glass vial that contained, not a Revenant, but a Presence –one that desired only oblivion after unnumbered years of painful memory. The Mage had granted the Presence's request, and had been rewarded with a promise of knowledge similar to how Sten received his new skills from Kolgrim and the Dragon's blood. Except the kernel of knowledge planted in Sten had taken root immediately and begun to produce results; while the quiet thought that had nestled in the Mage's mind as the Presence faded away had simply lain dormant until the Mage had completely forgotten it was there, or even the name of whatever it meant to teach her.

Now as she reached for the sword in Sten's hand, the thought that the Presence had planted sprang to life; she could feel it _straining_ toward the blade, whose vibrations grew more agitated as it responded to the call. Sten presented the hilt to her with a look of disgust; clearly, the sword repelled him, but he knew where it belonged. The Mage's hand rested on the pommel, and her eyes flew open as the Presence in her head and the energy in the sword leaped for one another; as her fingers closed around the hilt and Sten relinquished it, the connection clicked home.

The sword thrilled in her hand; the Presence filled her body with a sense of _purpose_ , muscles and sinews receiving directions she had never issued in her life. Visions of magic channeled into strength, of fighting at close quarters with a blade, her magic and the Mage's sword making her as strong as Sten, as deadly as Alistair –or even Loghain.

 _Arcane Warrior_.

She looked down at the sword, in whose depths she could see a roll of clouds like an approaching storm. A flicker of lightning arced across the blade. The Mage smiled.

"Yes," she whispered.

As she practiced sheathing and unsheathing it from the belt that normally held her staff at rest against her back, Loghain and Oghren came trudging back into the chamber. Loghain lifted his chin at Sten and jerked his thumb back down the passage.

"These Mountain warriors fight like you do, Qunari," he called up to them. "I had never seen your techniques employed before, but those two-handers seemed adept at it. Have you been holding some sort of training clinic up here? Is this the service to Andraste for which Haven is so grateful?"

"Actually," replied the Mage as she rejoined her companions below, "it was Sten who learned the technique from them."

Loghain raised both eyebrows. "A Sten of the Beresaad –seeking _human_ tutelage? Surely not."

Sten growled; the Mage explained. "It was offered to us as a reward for our services. Any one of our Warriors could have taken the instruction, but Sten seemed best suited for it. And you've seen how it has enhanced his already formidable skills."

"Huh," remarked Mac Tir, and the matter was closed.

* * *

The Warden feared that the commotion in the chamber might call more cultists to arms, but they made their way through the rest of the caverns and tunnels without incident. The last tunnel ended, and the company found themselves in a high-ceilinged, man-made passage whose windows looked out over the roof of the mountain. Crumbling walls extended for a few feet to either side of this passage, and then the paved road to the temple where the Wardens had found the Urn of Sacred Ashes lay open to the sky.

The company stood in the shadows of the outer walls, blinking at the sunlight. Loghain, still squinting, prepared to stride down the middle of the road as usual, but the Mage raised a hand and he halted with a grunt. The Warden raised a finger to her lips and then pointed Zevran, Sten and Oghren to the shelter of the wall nearest them. She and the others slipped across the road to the far wall. Once in position, she and Zevran each stood on tiptoe and peered over the jagged edges of stone to survey the landscape, including the various crags and ridges between the caverns and the temple.

"Do you see her?" whispered the Mage across the mountain path.

Zevran shook his head. "I don't see her," he mouthed back.

"Perhaps she's sleeping," suggested Morrigan.

" _Who_?" hissed Loghain.

"Andraste," answered the Mage and Morrigan together.

Loghain looked down at their tense, crouching forms for a moment. "You're all mad," he said finally.

"Yes," agreed his commander. "We're mad. Just please be quiet. And drink this." She handed him one of the earthenware flasks she had purchased from the Circle Tower. She had spent a night in her tent brewing fire-protection potions, and now each of the special flasks was filled with a warm, glowing liquid. There was one in her pack for each member of the party; the Mage beckoned the others over from the far wall to receive theirs. Oghren pulled the stopper on his flask and gave it a sniff, shrugged, and drank. Loghain looked skeptical, but seeing the others all quaffing theirs without question, tipped his own portion down his throat. As the potion descended his eyes flashed, startled, and then were sheathed under a speculative frown. He smacked his lips.

"Bracing," he remarked, "but it's hardly the occasion for a toast, Warden, do you think?"

"Kinda takes the edge off this mountain air, though," observed Oghren, squinting at the high, unfettered disc of the sun. "Caridin's tits, that's bright."

With the coast at least momentarily clear, the Mage led her company down the path and into the open. The high mountain air sang between the rocks and shattered into sparkling fragments against the snow-clad sides of the peak. Loghain lifted his long nose into it, nostrils flaring, and exhaled deeply. The Mage, Zevran and Morrigan continued to look around them as they went, on all sides and above, as though they were walking through the Deep Roads.

" _Kadan_ ," said Sten, who was looking ahead. The Warden followed his gaze and spotted Father Kolgrim with a pair of his attendants coming down the path from the temple. Kolgrim's arms were spread wide as he greeted them in a loud voice.

"Ah, our champion has returned," he called as the two parties met up just under the crags flanking the final, narrow path that led to the Gauntlet. "Welcome! Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Hello, Kolgrim," said the Mage. "How are your disciples faring since our last meeting?"

"The damage done to our home and our people was considerable," he answered. "We shall need time to rebuild. But we have joy in our work," he continued stridently, "because we labor in the service of the risen Andraste, whom you have freed: friend and deliverer of our divine Lady!"

The Mage cleared her throat. "Yes," she agreed. "I am sorry about the loss of so many of your Warriors. In truth, I find myself in a similar position. There is a Blight in Ferelden, as you are no doubt aware, and I am building an army to fight the Darkspawn. They may not threaten Haven yet, but if the Archdemon is not defeated, they will overrun this land, including the mountain. We need all the help we can get, Kolgrim. Now that Andraste is freed, could you not spare me some of your excellent Warriors to help defend her temple?"

She had thought it rather a clever and sensible appeal, but Kolgrim laughed. "It was the sin of the Imperium that brought the Darkspawn into this world," he sneered. "Let them come and scourge the land, to pave the way for the risen Andraste." He spread his arms open to the sky. "Already, the weight of the past has lifted off the mountain!" he cried, and looked at the Mage as at a long-lost sister.

"Come," he urged her. "Stay with us, and witness from on high the changing of the world!" The eager voice grew hoarse, fervid. "You are Andraste's knight-champion! You will be richly rewarded for your service. Glory will be yours in the next life! And when there is nothing left to destroy in this one," he crowed, " _we_ will emerge and build a new kingdom in Her name!"

The Mage sighed, and shook her head. "I thought as much," she said wearily. "Still, it was worth a try. . ." She readied her staff. Behind her, she heard the drawing of weapons and a shifting on the path as her companions prepared for battle.

Kolgrim was incredulous. "You would turn on us? After we've bestowed upon you the power granted by the Prophet?"

"I'm sorry, Kolgrim," said the Warden. "I need more Reavers. If you will not provide them for me, I shall have to make my own."

At a sign from his leader, one of Kolgrim's attendants streaked past the Wardens' company and up the path behind them. The Mage looked swiftly at Zevran, who fit an arrow to the string and sent it whistling into the man's leg, pinning him to the ground. Kolgrim turned to Sten.

"Help us, brother!" he pleaded stridently. "We made you one of us! We gave you new life as a child of the risen Andraste!"

Sten drew the greatsword Yusaris from its sheath. "My life is with my sword and my honor as a Sten of the Beresaad," he said solemnly. "They were returned to me by the Grey Warden. I need no new life. I stand with her."

Kolgrim hefted his battleaxe and brandished it at them with a yell of fury. The attendant at his side followed, snarling.

"Oh, good," drawled Loghain, jamming Duty back on his head. "I was beginning to get bored. . ."

"Zevran! Morrigan! Shut them up!" cried the Warden as the cultists' screams echoed off the mountain crags. "And stop him!" she added, pointing at the third man, who was limping frantically up the path with Zevran's arrow buried in his thigh. The Mage had thought that he was running to summon help from the caverns below; she now saw that he was heading for a slight ridge above the path, on which stood a large brass disc suspended in a wooden frame. His progress was impeded, however, as Zevran shot more arrows and Morrigan froze him in his tracks.

The Witch's ice had silenced Kolgrim, as well, while the Rogue and the Mage worked to keep the other Reaver paralyzed and mute. Notwithstanding the constant stream of curses and insults issuing from one or other of the Berserkers, the battle was finished in relative quiet. Even outnumbered, however, Kolgrim and his attendant proved difficult to subdue. When it was over, Loghain leaned on the Starfang and surveyed their fallen, bleeding forms.

"These –what do you call them, Reavers?—they're rather pesky," he panted. "Pity you weren't able to convince him to join you, Warden. We could have used a few like him."

"We may still be able to cultivate some Reavers," replied the Mage, "if Andraste will accommodate us."

"Where is she?" wondered Oghren as his eyes roamed the crags and ridges around the mountain path.

Morrigan tsk'ed, shaking her head. "That ungrateful bitch," she said reprovingly. "Her faithful keeper is cut down and she does nothing to avenge him."

"Look," said Zevran, lifting his chin up the path towards the man who had run.

He was still alive, but barely. He lay on the path in a mire of his own blood. Occasionally he would prop himself up on his elbows and drag himself another foot or two towards the brass disc. He mouthed a strangled prayer as his eyes rolled toward the heavens.

"Hmm," mused the Assassin as he plunged his dagger into the back of the man's neck and gave it a twist, silencing him forever. "Now, I wonder what is so important about that pretty, shiny thing, that this man would die to reach it?"

They ascended the ridge and stood looking at the gong. "I've seen things like this in Orzammar," said Oghren. "They make a really weird noise when you hit 'em. Look, there's a mallet to strike it with." The Dwarf made a face. "He was gonna call her."

The Mage nodded. "That must be how they do it," she agreed. "What else would something like this be doing up here?"

The gong stood serenely between its posts and winked at them in the sunlight. It was fashioned almost like a targe or a large buckler, with a wide, slightly concave brass rim that surrounded a duller, darker, raised centerpiece like a boss. It drew the company to it as though they had been bewitched. Loghain looked at the mallet, and then at the sky.

"Was this the true purpose of this venture, then?" he asked the Mage. "It did seem a long way to travel for a sword, a few trinkets, and the pleasure of provoking and killing a lunatic. But, Warden: if you believe, as they did, that striking this thing will call the Prophet herself –a Prophet, might I add, whose disciples you have just cut down within sight of her temple—would that truly be—" He pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced, as though scarcely willing to form the words that would give credence to this madness. "But –Andraste won't actually – _come,_ "he said finally. "Will she?"

His eyes sought an answer from those of his commander. The Mage merely cocked her head at him and raised an eyebrow. His mouth quirked in annoyance, but it was too late; he had already caught the spark of curiosity from her wordless invitation, and from the gong that gleamed quietly in its frame like the cheese in the biggest mousetrap in Thedas.

Zevran had crept to one of the posts from which the gong was suspended and circled it with one arm, like a lover. "So – _tempting_ , isn't it?" he chuckled slyly. The gong was etched with shallow grooves in concentric rings from the rim to the boss; the pads of the Elf's fingers nestled into them, stroking and caressing. "'Touch me, _hit_ me,' it says; and we want to, in spite of ourselves. Ah, Andraste—" He pressed his body against the wooden frame and sighed.

The disc was responding to Zevran's touch; each sweep of his fingers produced a shimmering note that hummed across the valley.

The Mage glanced at Loghain, who still stood frowning, unsure whether or not to sheath his weapon. "You may want to hold on to something. . ."

Zevran now punctuated his strokes of the gong with loving curls of his palm over the central mound. The Mage could swear he was purring. "And how fitting, isn't it?" he asked them, smiling. "Is it not the legend that Andraste called the Maker to her with music?"

The thrumming notes built up a vibration like approaching thunder in their ears. Zevran laid his head along the wooden post as if in a swoon; his eyes were heavy with longing.

"And so it has always been," he mumured. "Even gods –even goddesses –will come to you. . .if you can only –make –the right—"

Suddenly his knuckles struck the center of the gong; the vibration became a sunburst of thrilling, wavering sound, which was answered by a rush of wings—

"—noise."

The dragon landed on the path above them with a concussion that nearly knocked them off their feet. Loghain staggered back with a curse as the beast called Andraste spread her wings and screamed at them. The Warriors drew her with taunts and blows down into the lowest point of the valley, away from the less heavily-armored Rogue and the two Mages. Zevran gave the Warden a wink and disappeared under his cloak of stealth, slipping down the hill to put the assassin's Mark of Death on their enemy. Then, before she even knew he was there, his daggers flashed from their sheaths, slicing the tendons in her forefeet in one dual stroke. She screamed again and whirled round, searching for him; twisting away from her snapping jaws, he blew her a kiss and sprinted back up the hill to stand by his commander.

"She is almost as fearsome as you are, my goddess!" he shouted as he drew his bow and an ice-tipped arrow. "And yet, I believe we have her."

A few blows from Oghren's hammer shattered the joints in Andraste's forelegs. As the dragon buckled in pain, the Dwarf moved to apply the same tactics to the back end. Here he was hampered not only by the size of the great hind limbs, but by the repeated kicks she leveled at him, sending him sprawling in the dirt time and again and then buffeting him with her tail while he was down. The bulk of the dragon's attention, however, was fixed on Sten and the ancient sword of the Dragonslayer. She followed the Qunari relentlessly with hate-filled eyes, shrieking. Indeed, she seemed oblivious to Mac Tir, which he clearly found insulting. As the dragon shifted to keep Sten locked in her sights, Loghain slashed at her belly and sides with the Starfang; when this failed to earn her notice, he circled around and placed himself before her directly in front of Sten, just as her chest swelled and the long neck curled back. Andraste unleashed a torrent of flame full on the two Warriors, nearly eclipsing them from the Mage's sight. Loghain dropped to the ground with a yelp and threw his shield over his head, curling as much of his body as he could fit under its protection. As the rolling fire washed over him, the Warden saw him jerk in surprise; his head popped out from behind the shield and he looked swiftly at himself and at the Qunari behind him. The last of the dragon's flame was dissolving harmlessly around them, absorbed by the potion that the Mage had made them drink.

Loghain flipped open the visor on his helmet and squinted up at his commander as she watched him from the hill. The two Wardens exchanged a nod. With a chuckle, the Champion turned back to face his enemy, who was once again staring down the pacing Qunari and his sword. Loghain beat the Starfang against his shield and gave a tremendous war cry. At last, the High Dragon's gaze bent toward him.

"That's right, you worthless old hag," he bellowed. "Come to me!"

Rearing on her hind legs, the dragon swung round to face the Hero of River Dane. The sweep of her wings was a cloud blotting out the sky, their shadow that of an enormous bird of prey. Her neck stretched forward, straining to its fullest as she answered his challenge with a piercing scream. The monster's head was so close to Mac Tir's that the Warden imagined he could see right down the steaming gullet. "Huh," she heard him sneer, and he spat at the beloved Andraste. The Mage felt a surge of dark joy that nearly overwhelmed her; she could scarcely draw a breath to laugh. Even Morrigan was laughing as she sent an arcane bolt into the dragon's breast.

Suddenly Loghain whooped and let out a cry of pain. Sensing that he might need healing, the Mage peered at the spot where he had stood, but she could not find him. Andraste was tossing her head in the air; she appeared to have something caught in her jaws. The Mage felt her insides turn to ice and her stomach lurch in horror as she realized that the something was Loghain Mac Tir.

He was inside the dragon's mouth.

There was a horrible crunching noise as the dragon's teeth tried to pierce his chevalier armor. The heavy plate dented, but held, though each crunch wrenched another grunt of pain from Loghain. He was cursing and trying to bash Andraste in the face with his shield and the pommel of his sword. Realizing that she could not bite through him, she grasped the Warrior in her jaws and shook him as if she was Alpha playing tug-of-war with a stick. Loghain's shouts became an awful gargling. Then Andraste spat, hurling Mac Tir's body to the ground. There was a thud and a clatter, and then silence.

Certainly the dragon continued to shriek at Sten and at the Dwarf, both of whom yelled or swore or called down oaths and invectives in various tongues; and Morrigan and the Rogue mocked their enemy from their perch up by the gong; and the carrion birds that haunted the nearby crags still cawed and croaked as they circled overhead. But to the Mage, it was as though a terrible, oppressive silence had fallen over the mountain. The Champion's voice was stilled.

"No!" she cried. She leapt down the hill, unsheathing the arcane sword as she ran. The Mage called to Morrigan over her shoulder, pointing to where she could see Loghain's body lying on the ground.

"The Revival spell! There, now!"

Morrigan looked, but Andraste was preparing another blast of fire and the Witch would not be deterred from her favorite game. She clucked her tongue impatiently.

"What for? She's nearly finished," she called back. "Let him lie!"

"Just _do_ it!"

Morrigan groaned and interrupted the ice spell she was preparing. She stood frowning for a moment on the hill, recalling what Wynne had taught her months before. The Mage continued to run, down to the splash of silverite that lay in the dust of battle, her senses reaching for the fading pulse in the taint that was her fellow Warden.

 _No. No, no, no, no, no, no._

She reached his still form, face down on the mountain path. The dragon had resumed her prowling pursuit of the Qunari. Even with the monster's back to her, the Mage gained a new appreciation of just how _big_ High Dragons were. The tail that waved over her head was like a spiked and lashing tree trunk; the hind legs were jointed columns of stone with claws. Any of them could cause considerable damage to her or to Loghain, just by accident. As she looked at the sword in her hand, the tail made a low sweep and she ducked as it whistled past. Rising, the Warden placed herself between Loghain and the dragon. Andraste kicked at Oghren as the Dwarf's hammer descended on one of her clawed toes; the Mage choked and shaded her eyes as the dust flew up, momentarily blinding her.

 _Idiot_ , she thought. _What are you doing here?_

She looked at her staff, which she still held in her off hand. If she wanted to use it comfortably, she should remove herself, away from that thrashing tail. But that would mean leaving Loghain. The Mage's sword was calling to her: _Arcane Warrior_. And she was one, after all. She would stand her ground. Looking at the fallen Champion, she saw that his shield had been shaken from his arm while he was in Andraste's mouth. Her mouth set; she tossed her staff aside and lifted the shield with its rampant wyvern to her chest. It was heavy, but the Mage's sword channeled her magic into her arm, swirling around both it and the shield, lifting them, holding them. It was good. The Mage slipped her forearm through the straps of the shield and held tight; as she curled it against her, she felt strong. She was a Warrior; she was the Hero of River Dane, bracing himself for a fight. The dragon's tail swept low again; at once she focused her magic into her shield arm and conjured up an image of the Champion in battle. She did not duck this time; instead, she swung the shield with a high-pitched yell and batted the tail away as it flew by. Away from her; away from Loghain. The Mage grinned.

Now she hefted the sword, which was singing to her of all the things she could do with it. The smart thing would be to dart in and attempt to slash the tendons on the dragon's back legs as Zevran had done the front, but that would mean leaving Loghain unprotected. Or, she thought, she could have a go at the tail, and possibly distract Andraste away from Sten so that the ancient sword could do its work. As the great spiked lash whipped towards her; the Mage swung her sword-arm. The impact jarred her elbow and stung like a swarm of hornets. Her blade, meanwhile had made a minor slice between a couple of the smallest scales –no more than Andraste would feel when stepping on a sharp stone, she imagined.

"Pathetic," she snarled.

' _The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it,'_ Loghain had said that, back at Soldier's Peak. She could hear him saying it now.

"Damn you," she whispered to him. He lay still, unresponsive. What was taking Morrigan so long? The Mage glanced up the hill. Though her face still looked sour, the eyes of the Witch were focused on the ground by the Warden's feet. The Mage could see her lips forming the incantation. Her staff was beginning to glow.

The Warden could cast as well, she thought;but she was used to having her left hand free, and the sword was trying to channel her power into her muscles, filling her with images of stabbing and slicing. She felt like a very stupid doll in the hands of an invisible child.

 _Maker, hear me_ , she prayed. _Give us a little more time. Give him a chance to tell me he was right._

As she grimaced in disgust, wondering if she should forget the sword and find her staff again or if it would be more dangerous to take her eye off the tail, several things happened at once. There was a cough behind her, followed by a deep rasp of breath, and a surge in the taint as Morrigan's spell finally took effect. Then –whether because she had been distracted by the Wardens, or weakened by spells and sword-strokes and the hobbling efforts of Oghren and Zevran, or a combination of all—Andraste stumbled, and Sten sprang. The Mage saw him grab the dragon by one of her horns and swing up on her neck as though he was mounting a Bronto; his legs clasped her just behind her head and he held on, readying his sword for a driving downward thrust between the eyes of the monster. Then all the Warden could see was a wild twisting, thrashing mass of scales and muscle. Sten appeared and disappeared from her view as the High Dragon fought to fling him off. The Mage saw Yusaris rise and fall, and then the top of Andraste's head burst open in a shower of blood. The dragon's tail thrashed and flailed wildly as she screamed out her death; the Mage used both sword and shield to keep herself and Loghain from being pummeled to bits. At last the great limbs buckled, the dragon's head reared one final time to the sky, and Andraste collapsed into the dust.

Morrigan was stalking down the hill towards them, scolding the Mage as she came. "See?" she sneered. "That was a complete waste of mana. We did not need _him_ to finish her off."

Loghain coughed again; the Mage thought she heard a growl in it. Finally lowering her arms to her sides, she turned to look at him. He had propped himself up on one hand and was leaning over, Duty under his other arm, hawking a wad of something bloody onto the ground and glaring at Morrigan. There were double rows of tooth-shaped dents across the torso of the chevalier plate.

"And what on earth _you_ might have been thinking—" continued the Witch, tossing the Mage's staff at her. "Here. This could have been damaged." The staff landed at the Warden's feet; she tried to catch it before realizing that she had both hands full. She clumsily sheathed the arcane blade at her back and then stooped for her staff, legs and fingers trembling in the aftershock of the battle.

Meanwhile, Sten had strolled over to report, blood still dripping from his helm and shoulders.

"I have instructed the others to begin filling the bottles as quickly as possible, before too much of the dragon's blood is spilled on the ground," he said.

"Thank you, Sten," said his commander.

Blood was running from Loghain's mouth and ears, and from a gash on his cheek where Duty's guards had scraped it open.

"Nice move, that," he said to Sten, twirling his finger to illustrate the Qunari's acrobatics. His voice was thick and he spoke gingerly; the Mage guessed that he must have bitten his tongue.

Sten grunted and extended a hand, helping the Warrior to his feet. Mac Tir spat again. The Mage looked at her hands and realized they were both still full, because she was still holding the Gwaren shield. Its owner, catching her eye, pointed an eyebrow at it and looked at her archly. He seemed amused at the sight of her holding a warrior's tools.

"Warden," he rumbled in greeting.

"Warden," she answered back. She shucked the shield off her arm and handed it over.

"If you're going to get into the habit of rushing to my rescue—" he remarked, wincing as he reached for it, "—perhaps some lessons are in order."

Zevran had carried his and the Mage's packs over to where the dragon's head lay on the ground. He and Oghren were filling the empty flasks and bottles from the still-pulsing arteries. The Wardens walked slowly up to meet them, the Mage healing Loghain's cheek and the inside of his mouth as they went.

"This is the weirdest looting I've ever done, Warden," observed Oghren as they drew up. "Hope you've got something planned for all this besides dragon stew. Hey there, buddy, thought we'd lost ya," he added to Loghain. "Ol' Scaly Britches here shook ya like a sodding rat."

Loghain nodded at the Dwarf, plunked his shield and sword down and groaned. Sten and Oghren helped to remove his plate, which was digging into his already bruised flesh. The Mage winced and healed him. Loghain's breathing became easier; as he stretched and shook the feeling back into his arms and fingers, he smirked at the Warden's worried face.

"Thank you," he said deliberately. She lowered her eyes, but relaxed.

Turning away, the Mage stood for a moment frowning in the direction of the temple. Loghain joined her presently, his boots crunching heavily on the path.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her. She looked sidelong at him; his expression was weary, but game.

"I'm thinking of having another peek in there," she replied.

"More treasure?"

"Possibly," she said. "That's what I'm hoping, anyway."

"Lead on, then," said Mac Tir, extending an arm along the path.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest?"

"I think it's best if I keep moving, Warden," he answered. "If I sit down now, you may have to carry me off this mountain."

The Mage turned back to where the others still plundered the corpse of the High Dragon.

"Oghren?" she called out. "Care to see the Temple of the Prophet Andraste?"

Oghren looked around at the searing expanse of bright, clear sky.

"Sure," he muttered, unhooking his flask.

They walked slowly, for Loghain's sake, the Mage sensing bits of him that hurt and healing them as she went. Some of his injuries were beyond her, however; he would need rest and an injury kit when they got back to camp.

"I'm sorry I can't do more to help," she told him.

He grunted. "I've certainly met better healers than you, Mage," he said drily. The Warden bowed her head; she had no argument against him. Mac Tir, seeing her looking crestfallen, softened.

"I'll be all right," he told her.

"You think there are any more of those Reavers inside, Warden?" asked Oghren. "I haven't got more than a few swings left in me today."

"If there were," mused Loghain, "I'm sure they would have been drawn out here already, with the racket we've been making. Besides," he added with a grin, "we have our brave Commander to protect us."

The temple was dark, cold, bereft of life or sanctity. Oghren, who had not yet joined the Wardens' company when they first journeyed here, looked around skeptically.

"It's a neat bit of stonework, Warden," he muttered, "but I kinda don't see the point, if you know what I mean."

They reached the inner chamber, from which all but the barest light had gone. In the dimness, the Mage could see that the stone altar had been tipped over, and the steps leading up to the high dais on which the Urn of Sacred Ashes had been set were chipped and scorched –evidence, she guessed, of their battle with the Guardian.

"I'm feeling strangely underwhelmed, considering," observed Mac Tir.

Suddenly the Mage gasped. "It's gone!" she cried.

"What is?"

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes. It was sitting right up there. . ." She shook her head. "Kolgrim must have taken it," she said. "As soon as he knew the Guardian was destroyed—"

"The Guardian?" Loghain frowned. "But—"

The Mage waved a dismissive hand. "That dragon wasn't guarding the Ashes," she explained. "In truth, I don't know what she understood of Kolgrim, or the Ashes or the Temple or anything. Most likely all she knew was that she had found a devoted servant and protector for herself, her mates and her young. But the Guardian was here first. Those chambers behind us were once a series of trials and traps called the Gauntlet, meant to keep out the unworthy who came to see or to defile the Ashes. Supposedly, they have been here since the Ashes themselves were installed. The dragon was a relative latecomer."

Loghain started suddenly and blinked twice. "About _how_ late, do you know?" he asked. "Did Kolgrim say when the dragon first appeared?"

"Not –no one said, exactly," answered the Mage. "Why?"

Mac Tir shook his head. "I suppose it's not important," he said brusquely. "Never mind. So, quite a cozy setup for a High Dragon, then: a whole mountain as her domain, protected and worshipped by a community of savage isolationists who also happen to be quite fine Warriors."

"Well, she helped with that. It is by drinking the blood of a High Dragon that Reavers are created."

"Ah," exclaimed Loghain. "And thus, the bottles. You mean to collect her blood and make as many of your soldiers as possible drink it." He nodded in approval.

"Well, I was hoping they'd volunteer, but yes." The Mage looked invitingly at Oghren.

The Dwarf belched. "Aye, sure, I'm game. Why the sod not? You in, Berserker?"

The commander shook her head and answered for her fellow Warden. "I don't think I can ask my followers to drink more than one type of their enemies' blood apiece," she said with a smile. "But thank you, Oghren. I'm sure that Sten will be happy to assist with your training."

The Dwarf looked sour. "If he steps on me, I'll Reave him right in the stones," he growled.

"So –the Ashes?" asked Loghain. "Where do they come in?"

"Kolgrim and his followers had gotten it into their heads that the High Dragon who had settled on their mountain was in fact the Prophet Andraste, arisen to life in glorious, semi-divine form," answered the Mage.

"Glorious," echoed Mac Tir with a roll of his eyes. "But, only semi-divine?"

"Yes, and that's where the Ashes come in. It was Kolgrim's belief that the Ashes of the earthly Prophet were the only thing still tying the risen Andraste to mortal life. But he couldn't get to them, you see. He couldn't get past the Guardian."

"So he asked you to destroy them for him."

"Not exactly." The Mage sighed. "He –he gave me a vial of blood," she said softly. "Of the dragon's blood. The power of the Ashes had to be released to the new Andraste, he said. . ."

Loghain turned his head to stare at her. "You –found the legendary Urn containing the ashes of the Prophet Andraste and –poured a vial of that dragon's blood in it?"

"I bet you pissed that Guardian off something fierce," remarked Oghren.

"He was –rather upset, yes," agreed the Mage.

"And it was this service for which Kolgrim rewarded you by allowing your Qunari to become a Reaver."

"And for which he didn't attack the four of us with a roomful of Reavers and Mages on our way up here." She sighed. "I thought he would have left the Ashes alone. He was so dismissive of them, of this whole temple; I thought that once he'd gotten what he wanted, he'd just forget about them."

"Regrets won't help you accomplish anything, Warden," admonished Mac Tir. "Take it from me."

She shook her head. "I just thought –that maybe I could find even a little bit, maybe in the bottom of the Urn, that hadn't been corrupted. It was only a small vial, you see, and –and we are going up against an Archdemon. And you were right: those Ashes were better healers than Morrigan or I will ever be."

There was a silence as Loghain continued to look at her. She could feel his gaze, but could not bring herself to meet it.

"If it helps," she said, "this was the difference of opinion that caused Wynne to leave us."

Loghain blinked. "Aha," he exclaimed again. "Hmm. As mitigating circumstances go, that is a considerable one. I confess that I was not at all looking forward to hearing her snipe and nag at me all the way to the end of this Blight."

The Mage chuckled drily. "Yes, well, after I defiled the Ashes, she could not bear to stay in my company –not even to nag me." She looked down at her hands. "She said I was as bad as the Darkspawn. Worse, even."

"Oh, come now," protested Mac Tir. The Warden stared at the place where the Ashes of Andraste once rested. Loghain followed her gaze and there was another thoughtful silence.

"At the very least," he insisted, "you smell better than they do."

The Mage suspected that the placid statues adorning the chamber had never borne witness to any noise as undignified as the snort that she produced at this remark. They turned blank alabaster eyes to such profanity. The stones, however, recalled the sound of the Grey Warden's laughter long after she had turned and left, as well as the soft plosive chuckle of the Champion who followed her.

* * *

Outside, Zevran presented the Mage with several scales that had fallen from the dragon's limbs and sides during the battle. She turned them over in her hands.

"Do we have time for a mad dash to Denerim, do you think?" she asked Loghain after a moment. "I don't feel a thing from the Archdemon."

"Nor do I," he answered. "What do you want to go to Denerim for?"

"The armorsmith, Wade, once told me that he could make the most amazing armor out of dragon scales, and that I should come to him if I ever found some. And, the Archdemon does take the form of a dragon. . .I thought, it would be some protection for one of us at least." She shrugged.

"I see," he replied. "Yes, I know Wade, and I would call it a good idea if we had a few months to spare, but you'll not get armor from him in an afternoon."

"He promised me he could make it in just a few hours. With real dragon scales, that is."

"Oh, he did, did he?" sniped Loghain. "That bastard. I'll remind him of that when he tells me it'll take three weeks to bash the dents out of this armor."

"You just need to know how to motivate people, I guess," observed the Mage with a smile.

"Yes –by giving them bits of Andraste's hide."

* * *

They took a shortcut down to the lower temple, electing to avoid the caverns and their cultist denizens. The sun was set when they re-encountered the Haven guard, still at his post at the lower entrance to the village.

"We heard the beloved Andraste on the mountaintop," he said curiously. "We thought that she might finally have chosen her moment to declare herself to the world. Is she—?"

"I'm afraid not," said the Mage. "She was merely declaring herself to us."

Loghain, now in on the game of words, answered the Guard's slightly puzzled expression. "I, being recently conscripted, had not yet beheld the beloved Andraste in her risen form," he explained. "The Grey Warden called her, and she was gracious enough to grant us an audience."

"Ah," sighed the Guard, "and is she not magnificent?"

"My breath," replied Loghain, "was quite taken away."

As the Wardens left Haven for the last time, Loghain was chuckling again.

"I'm beginning to think that Wynne was right," he said. "You _are_ wicked."

The Mage thought suddenly of the moths that would sometimes come through the open windows of the Tower, attracted by the lamp she used when she studied at night. The moths were softer and muter in color than butterflies, yet less timid, not as fragile. They would tattoo the glass of the lamp with susurrant wing-beats; when she reached out to them, their heated bodies bathed her wrists and the backs of her hands with a sensation like a flutter of warm breath.

If she had not raised her hood upon exiting the temple, her companions would have been able to note that the tips of her ears had gone slightly pink.

"So this is why you didn't bring the Orlesian," declared Loghain after a moment. "She doesn't know a thing about what happened here last time, does she?"

"She does not," answered the Mage.

Mac Tir shook his head, frowning. "That sounds uncharacteristically cowardly of you, Warden," he said. "Why do you not tell her what you did to the Ashes? And if you're so ashamed of it, why do it in the first place?"

"I told you: to gain knowledge and an advantage in battle."

"So for the benefit of one warrior, you defiled an ancient relic that contained a power found nowhere else in this world."

"Not just one: that's why we went back," said the Mage. "To make sure, one way or the other, that we got as many Reavers out of it as we could. And the Ashes weren't helping anyone, anyway," she argued. "They were sitting in a guarded fortress on top of a mountain full of vicious lunatics, doing nothing."

"But they were _there_ ," insisted Loghain. "People _believed_ in them. People based their hopes, their faith, in some cases their very lives on their belief in the existence of those Ashes. Even if they never got the chance to see or touch them."

"And now," replied the Mage, "you have the answer to your other question."

The Wardens went down the rest of the mountain in silence. Loghain touched the Silver Sword of Mercy that hung at his breast, and frowned.

When they reached camp again, one of the first things they saw was Leliana's hair. She knelt in front of her tent by the fire, praying.

"I could still tell her, you know," said Loghain in a low voice as Alpha began to bark.

"What," said the Mage, "that a mad dragon cultist stole or scattered the Ashes because he believed they would free his scaly mistress to rule the world? Certainly, if you wished to make her unhappy. I would not be able to stop you."

"You know what I mean. I could tell her everything."

Leliana, beaming, sprang to her feet and came running with open arms to meet them.

"Yes, you could," said the Mage.

But he didn't.

* * *

[ ](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/art/Unbound-Ch-8-Illustration-244295744)


	9. Sunder Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Action, reaction and counteraction: a little dance the Mage performs with some unexpected results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This chapter has an Academy Award-type list of people to thank. First, as always, are **ShiningMoon** and **Josie** “Six-Gun” **Lange** , the Dialogue Tag Killer, for their usual stellar beta help (and ShiningMoon for impending Unbound art, of course!). For this chapter, however, I must also thank **sleepyowlet** (miss you! :*) and **Tyanilth** for help with the technicalities of swordfighting and the instruction of same. The sparring scene below would not be what it is without the help of those two.  
>  And of course I must thank all those who read the previous chapters and have come back for more despite an unexpectedly (and unintentionally) long hiatus.  
> Reviews, even constructive criticism, are always welcome. I write for my own enjoyment, but part of my enjoyment comes from writing something that other people like to read.  
> This chapter contains a couple of tiny lines “spoken” by the Warden during gameplay of Dragon Age: Origins. Someone at BioWare wrote those. I wrote the rest.  
> _

Dawn was breaking on their second day on the road to Denerim, and something was beating on the sides of her tent.

The Mage had had second watch the previous night. Normally, those pulling the middle shift were allowed to sleep in a little to make up for the broken night of rest. For some reason, however, watery early morning light was pushing its way through the front flaps of her tent. There was a shadow circling outside –a shadow shaped like the lower half of a man. It was swinging a sword in its right hand; the flat of the sword slapped against the cloth as the figure paced, round and round and round. The Mage threw her coverlet over her head, but the persistent whacks of the sword penetrated the last fogged remains of her sleep _._ She groaned.

“Up, Swordfighter!” barked a voice. “Come on, get those lazy bones moving.”

Loghain. The Mage fumbled for her shield –a targe of enchanted silverite that Leliana had stolen from Vartag Gavorn in Orzammar. As a lay sister, Leliana had used a single weapon for hand-to-hand combat and had only recently taken to the twin knives preferred by the Assassin. She had thought that she might return to her old style someday; but when her commander had returned from Haven with the arcane sword –which bore the name “Spellweaver” etched into its blade—she had immediately added the targe to the new Warrior’s equipment. Its enchantment provided extra defense that belied its relatively small size; perfect, said the Bard, for a lightly armed Mage inexperienced with close combat.

“As you command, Swordmaster,” said the Warden, yawning at the shadow. It stopped its pacing and withdrew.

She grabbed the shield by its buckled strap and used it to part the flap of her tent, Spellweaver already drawn and singing in her other hand. Loghain was standing a few yards opposite her in mismatched armor, the dented torso of his chevalier plate replaced by a cuirass of reinforced leather –no doubt borrowed from Bodahn’s collection of “found” odds and ends. She noticed that a targe similar in size to her own was resting against his left calf, while a collection of rather old, sad-looking swords lay before his feet. His hands were behind his back, a tightly curved smile and heavy brows sheathing the glint in his eyes. She shivered; his jaw twitched, and one corner of the smile crept upwards. He nodded at the sword in her hand.

“Give me that,” he said. She handed it over; he stooped and picked up each of the old swords in turn in his other hand, hefting their weights against the arcane blade. Finally he chose one that satisfied him and kicked the rest of them away.

“During my forced convalescence yesterday,” he said, “I had a rummage in the merchant’s cart and found these.” A wave of his hand indicated the discards. “Only one or two of them are actual practice swords, but the others are so poor and dull that they may as well be. This way, no matter how badly you miss your stroke, you won’t kill me –not with a blade, anyway. And you are strictly forbidden from using magic,” he admonished. “If I’m to train you, I don’t want to be dodging lightning bolts while I do it, understood?”

She nodded. Her stomach growled loudly; she laughed.

“Perhaps I should have something to eat first?”

He chuckled, hoisting his targe and sliding his forearm through the strap. He tightened the buckle.

“If you’re good, I might give you a piece of the beloved Andraste,” he said with a flash of teeth.

Despite nearly becoming a High Dragon’s chew toy, Loghain had not forgotten his promise to bring Alpha a new treat. Just before they had left the mountaintop, he had pried open the dead beast’s jaws, thrust his hand down her gullet, and drawn out about a forearm’s length of dripping, purple tongue. Smirking, he had planted a boot on the side of Andraste’s face and hacked the tongue free with the Starfang. The dead priest’s robes served as a wrapper for the grisly prize, which Loghain had placed with a loving smile in his pack. He had then spent most of the night back at camp smoking it slowly over the fire, carefully monitoring its progress and shooing Alpha away when the Mabari grew impatient. The Mage and Leliana had spent their respective watches begging him to go to sleep and rest from his injuries.

“You’ve ordered me a full day of rest tomorrow as it is,” he had argued when it was the Mage’s turn. “Riding in the merchant’s cart like an old woman. I shall sleep then. This takes care, and patience, to be done properly.” He had hidden his gaze in the smoke and that was the end of the discussion. In the morning he had declared the tongue fit for a warhound’s consumption and, while his companions trudged around him, he had spent the day sprawled over the heavier goods in Bodahn’s cart, alternately dozing and carving off chunks of dragon meat with his knife, tossing them about the road for Alpha to chase and devour.

Now the great hound barked stridently in protest at the idea of sharing his new favorite snack. The Mage looked at him.

“Don’t worry, Alpha,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She sighed, resigned to fighting hungry, and adjusted her own shield on her arm.

He began by showing her some elementary moves with the sword and shield. Depending on the arm being used, he would place himself to her right or her left side so that she could mark him properly. He told her the name of each type of jab, slice and hack, as well as those of the shield techniques required to block them. When he was satisfied as to her basic knowledge, he began to circle her, calling out names of moves at random and watching her from all angles as she performed them. She accepted some minor corrections and adjusted her techniques accordingly.

Though it was a surprisingly gentle start to her instruction, after several minutes she could feel her muscles reacting to being pulled and coerced into such unaccustomed directions. The Presence of the Arcane Warrior in her head ensured that she had enough strength to repeatedly lift and move these heavy objects, but that was not quite the same as _wielding_ them. And it was early, and she was hungry. She knit her brow and willed herself to focus on her task.

“Now,” he said at last, “let us see if you can think on your feet. Instead of performing the stroke I call out, you shall block it, and then send the same back to me.”

He hefted his sword-arm and began. The Mage winced in anticipation as she brought up the targe –correctly, but tremulously—to block the first blow. But the Champion’s sword merely connected with the boss in a perfunctory manner and withdrew. She took a breath and relaxed; this was not meant to be a show of power, then, but simply an exercise of reaction and counteraction. Loghain had continued to pace around her as they worked, requiring her to move with him in order to keep up with his strokes and respond appropriately. After several rounds in which the Mage demonstrated her quick study, both she and her instructor had developed an easy rhythm. The Warden, her confidence bolstered by her progress, tried a few more forceful swings on the counterstroke, hoping to generate a combat-level sensation of impact, but Loghain swatted them away as easily as he would a leaf falling from a tree. Their swords and shields continued to meet with a force little greater than the clapping of hands.

“I _am_ armored after a fashion, you know,” she prompted him at length. “And the Darkspawn are hardly restrained when they swing at me.”

“They are trying to kill you,” he answered. “I am not –this time.” His lip curled; she bit hers and sighed. They continued, the two of them trading mock blows in silence, like polite old gentlemen.

“Are you trying, with that wearied expression, to tell me that you wish your first swordfighting lesson to take on a more – _practical_ tone?” he asked after a minute, between orders. “Do Mages usually practice their spells on each other in the Tower, even as they’re learning them?”

“Well, not at first, it’s true,” admitted the Mage. “Not until they have a certain amount of control over the spell. But quite soon, yes. It helps the participants to concentrate if the training atmosphere feels –real,” she said. “And it also encourages the development of defensive spells, which some Mages would otherwise never bother to learn. Some of us do get hurt—”

“I can imagine,” said Loghain with a grimace. “My sympathies go out to the poor bastards forced to spar against you.”

“—but there are always healers and Templars nearby, just in case.”

“Well, as we have _neither_ here with us,” said Loghain, “I will try your patience a little longer. Tomorrow, you will be allowed to practice hitting with your full strength –but not on me.”

“In the Tower, we had a room full of rough statues, shaped like men, to be used as targets for apprentices learning a brand new spell.”

“Even so with Warriors in training,” said Mac Tir, nodding. “Though our statues are usually made of wood and old sacking. You shall choose a tree that offends you and punish it to your heart’s content. But I won’t have you flailing away at it in an undisciplined fashion. Precision and control are as important as strength in swordfighting, Warden. And so, you will practice these moves until your bones and muscles remember them in your sleep. Then, you can apply them as needed, at will.”

She bowed; they continued. Now he swung without announcing the stroke; the Mage was forced to identify what was coming on her own, and to act accordingly in time. She found this part of the exercise challenging and rather enjoyable, but she could not muster the same level of enthusiasm for counterattacking with a tame, immature echo of whatever he had just sent her. The Presence grew impatient, as well; it kept invading her consciousness with visions of strokes and offensive shield tactics that had not been part of the lesson. With an effort, she fought off the urge to act them out; still, however, her thoughts lingered inward, and the subtle shift of focus in her eyes betrayed her.

So it was that she failed to notice Loghain’s countenance darken, failed to see the change in his breath and the heft of his arm as he aimed his next blow.

Suddenly a shockwave slammed up her shield arm, jolting her with pain. Her eyes flew to Loghain’s face. Thunder lowered across his brow; his sword, with which he had gotten her attention, left the boss of her shield and returned to the ready position. She gulped, caught; her shoulder throbbed but she dared not shake off the sting of her punishment. He shook his head at her.

“I’m sorry, Warden; was I boring you?” he asked. He swung the blade again and this time she saw it, could see the muscles in his arm flexing; another heavy blow was coming. She forced herself not to flail at it but simply to remember the moves he had taught her. The shield came up in time and stopped the sword right in front of her face. She gasped: would he really have struck her between the eyes if she had failed to block him? But no –he was still holding back. The thunderclouds were rolling but the eyes beneath them were cool, studying her.

“You said you wanted to learn to be a Warrior,” he taunted, still pacing. She turned with him, eyes darting back and forth from his face to the blade that turned and twitched with the flicks of his wrist.

“What did you think swordfighting was going to be like? A dance of shiny blades and dashing acrobatics? All heroics and stuff of legends? Huh,” he snorted. He drew another breath; she saw his right shoulder heft and roll and she tensed, nerves singing out.

“Very well, then: here comes the next important lesson every Warrior needs to learn.” The arm came up, the eyes glittering darkly. “How to take a beating.”

The sword crashed down again, and the shiver that coursed through her body was partly from the shock of impact –but also from the knowledge that he was still only using a measured portion of his strength and speed. What if he let go; what would happen to her? The others, who had been resting or bathing when the lesson started, had gathered around to watch. She could see them out of the corners of her eyes. Their presence, she supposed, ensured that things would not go too far –though she was no longer sure what “too far” might mean.

At first she had no thoughts about attacking; all of her strength of mind and body was focused on Loghain’s right arm that ascended and descended in a relentless onslaught of blows. Soon, however, she tired of merely _enduring_ the Warrior’s assault. She felt like a mouse trembling helplessly beneath the battering of the hawk’s talons on the roof of its hole, and she struggled against the impulse to curl up mouselike and cower. Clearing her head, she anticipated the next hammer-stroke and thrust her shield out to repel his force with her own. She was rewarded with a different sensation of impact; her entire body was jolted, but to a lesser degree, instead of her arm being cruelly wrenched in its socket. The Mage straightened, took an upright but flexible stance, and prepared herself for the next attack. Though she did not realize it, her feet were imitating the rocking motion of the Hero of River Dane as he prepared to do battle.

A few blows later, her own sword arm came up to the attack. Just as before, he blocked it with barely an effort, but now she swung for real and the collision of her sword rang with the same force against his shield as his did against hers. It jarred her at first, but she soon learned how to absorb the impact through her weapon as she had with her shield arm. Now the Mage felt the space between herself and her partner as filled with lines and webs of energy, such as she often saw through the Veil when she reached into the Fade. Instead of coming from nowhere, however, or from the remoteness of the Black City, the energy in the clearing passed from her to her fellow Warden and back again. On her right hand, she gathered her strength into her sword arm for a strike, and felt it buffeted to fragments by Loghain’s shield; on her left, her body sensed the oncoming rush of the attack, braced itself, and was rocked back by the pounding of Loghain’s sword.

All of a sudden Mac Tir’s eyes grew wide and furious. Before the Mage knew what was happening, his shield had swung over and connected sharply with her forearm. She dropped the sword with a yelp. There was a gasp from Leliana and a rustle of armor as the Bard moved to come to her Commander’s aid. The Mage waved her back.

“I’m all right,” she called out. Loghain’s jaw was clenched; the summer firestorm she had seen just before the Landsmeet duel had begun to flicker across his countenance. He threw a disgusted sidelong glance at the Mage’s sword where it lay on the ground. She looked, and flinched; lightning was arcing along the blade and scorching the grass. The Mage blushed. She had not cast a spell without meaning to since she was a child.

“What did I say when we began this lesson, Warden?” said Mac Tir with a menacing growl.

Her eyes were still on the ground. “No magic,” she said guiltily.

“Hm,” he snorted. “You are not deaf, then. Did you think I was joking? Or do you think yourself above anyone else’s little rules, Commander?”

“No, ser,” she answered, shaking her head.

“I cannot and will not continue with this whim of yours if you fail to obey the instructions I give you,” he said, leaning over so that her downcast eyes must meet his. “Is that clear?”

She flushed; her chest heaved once as though he had struck her in the face. She blinked, and swallowed. She straightened, like a soldier.

“Yes, ser,” she answered. He cocked his head at her skeptically.

“Then shall we continue?”

Her voice fluttered low so that only he could hear her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

Silence. She looked up to find that his eyes had gone almost completely dark. He seemed simultaneously shocked and incensed, and for a moment she feared that he would stop the lesson. Then he lifted his lip in a snarl and raised his sword again. In a panic she remembered that her own sword was still on the ground; she looked at it and back at him, and realized that he was not going to give her time to pick it up.

She braced both hands against the back of her shield and drove them outwards as his stroke fell. He staggered back and flung out both arms to keep from falling. Then, using the same backhanded sweep he had just employed on her, she caught the inside fore of his sword arm with the hard edge of Vartag Gavorn’s shield. He yelled in pain but did not let go of his weapon. As he shook the stinging out of his arm, the Mage stooped and picked up her practice sword. She gave the blade a meaningful glance and the lightning on its surface died abruptly. Loghain was regarding her from beneath his lowered brow. His nostrils flared, his shoulders lifted and fell. One corner of his mouth was pushed up in a grudging expression of approval.   

“Good girl,” he said, and then the smile faded.

He came at her like a bull. This time there were no instructions, no jibes or taunts, just the heave of his breath as he swung and the grunts and snarls of impact. The Mage found that she was panting as well; worse, she heard her own voice making shameful little grunting and whimpering noises as each blow connected. She couldn’t help it –she felt as if her entire frame was being shaken apart, and the noises she made were both the sound of her impending collapse and the only release she had so that the rest of her could remain intact. Loghain heard her, too; each cry he drew from her stoked the fire of his assault. The cords on his neck were taut, straining, his teeth bared, the broad mouth drawn back, his ragged breath coming from deep in his chest. His eyes, deep and black and furious, locked on to hers, and her lips parted in a small, lost sigh. And then she felt a sizzling pain in her shoulder and cried out; he roared a curse and withdrew, dropping his sword. There was a rush and several yells from her companions. The Mage cleared her head with a shake and looked around her. Sten, Zevran and Leliana were surrounding Loghain; Sten had his sword drawn. Loghain had shucked his targe as well and was turning from one to the other with his hands raised.

“Stop, all of you,” ordered the Mage. “Sten, put down your weapon. I’m all right.”

They turned at her voice. Sten slowly, reluctantly, lowered the Summer Sword. Leliana ran to the Warden’s side and stood by, wringing her hands. The Mage looked down at her shoulder. The point of Loghain’s sword had broken the skin just by her collarbone. The blade was too blunt to do any real damage, but the force of the thrust had been just strong enough to pierce the flesh. The Mage looked with fascination as a small spot of red slowly spread on the white robe.

Loghain’s face was a mask, his shoulders heavy with his breath as he approached her. He ran a hand across his mouth.

“I’ve hurt you,” he said thickly.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He sniffed in disgust; she looked up at him. His eyes were flat, his lips pressed together. She tilted her head at him.

“Lesson over for today, then?” she asked.

He blinked at her, frowned, and then nodded. He jerked a hand in the direction of the stream by which they had camped. “Do you—”

“No, you go,” she said calmly, indicating her robes. “I’ll get this stain out first and then have some breakfast.” She smiled weakly at him. “Thank you,” she said.

“Huh,” he barked in reply, as if the sound had been yanked out of him. He turned away. The Mage nodded at Leliana, walked calmly to her tent and ducked inside. She could hear Loghain snarling, tearing at the buckles of his cuirass, and the punishing tread of his feet as he stalked out of the clearing. Her knees buckled; she threw out a groping hand to catch herself so that she would not fall on her face. Trembling, she removed her robe and lowered herself to her bedroll with it clasped between her hands like a novice with a candle, or a young lover with a bunch of flowers.

The moths in the Tower, she thought –at night, heedless, blind with desire, the moths had fumbled and pushed at the glass of the study lamps, and the Mage had tried to move them; partly for their safety, but also because she herself felt ashamed, embarrassed, to be a witness to such an intimate act. It did not even seem as if the moths _were_ trying to launch themselves into the little fire, really. It was rather as though they strove out of some primal need to draw the fire _inside_ them.

Inside her tent, the Mage shivered. One arm had wrapped itself around her breastband, which suddenly seemed ill-fitting, as though a draft of chill morning air was working into it from outside. Her other hand still clasped her robe between her knees. She shut her eyes and drew a single great, shuddering breath. As she let it out, she touched her fingers to her lips, and smiled.

That night, as the companions sat around the campfire, Leliana peered closely at the Warden’s right shoulder. She frowned.

“You have not healed yourself from this morning?” she asked. “It seemed a simple wound; either you or Morrigan could have made it disappear easily.”

The Mage shrugged.

“But you will have a scar!” exclaimed the Bard. “Why, if it is not necessary?”

“Presumably she means to shame me with it,” barked Mac Tir.

“No,” protested the Mage, “I—”

But Loghain had already risen and was retreating to his tent. “Next time the Elf or the Orlesian will spar with you,” he called over his shoulder. “They’ll remember to play nicely. Get the blood up on a beast like me, and you’re likely to wind up with more than you can handle.”

* * *

The next morning, the Mage emerged from her tent to find Leliana standing nervously a few paces away, looking like a schoolgirl called upon to recite her lessons. She had her own practice sword in her hand.

“Loghain has ordered that I shall practice with you from now on,” she said meekly.

The Mage frowned. She had not quite known if Loghain’s insinuation that she was not up to the challenge of sparring with him was in earnest. Here was proof, however; and Leliana looked about as excited at her appointed task as the Mage herself was. Reluctantly, she smiled.

“Come now, Leliana, it can’t be as bad as all that,” she said. “And he did say that either you or Zevran would be a suitable partner for me. If you’d rather not spend your mornings playing taskmistress, just get him to do it instead.”

The Bard shook her head. “No,” she said. “This morning Loghain said specifically that it had to be me. Zevran has not fought with a single weapon for years, you see. Whereas I, as you know, had only the one while I was with the Chantry. So… ” she trailed off and looked at the ground.

“That makes sense,” admitted the Mage. “And he does know best in these matters, after all. So… ?” She shrugged. “Shall we get started?”

“I have never trained a novice before,” said Leliana miserably. “I would not wish to hurt you as –as he did.”

“Ah,” said the Warden, understanding her friend’s nervousness at last. “I don’t believe that you ever would hurt me, Leliana –and I imagine everyone else here feels the same.” The Rogue smiled sheepishly and relaxed somewhat.

“I promise, though,” said the Mage, fastening her targe to her arm, “that if I should sustain a –purely accidental—wound during my lessons, I shall heal it immediately.”

As it turned out, Loghain had resigned the role of sparring partner only. He still held himself responsible for the Mage’s tutelage overall. He would assign tasks and issue instructions at the beginning of the lesson, demonstrating with the Bard if necessary; otherwise, he observed the two women from his place by the fire and indicated his approval or displeasure in their turns. Zevran lounged on the opposite side of the arena, drinking in the view with a satisfied smile on his face.

“What a way to spend a morning, eh?” he called across the clearing on the second morning of this routine. “I confess that I was disappointed at first, not to have the honor of instructing my lovely mistress. I must say now that you knew what you were doing, ser. It is quite exhilarating to watch two such women facing off in combat.” He sighed contentedly and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “you were quite right to insist on this arrangement.” He gave Mac Tir a comradely salute.

Loghain refused to be baited, but the Mage spared the Elf a glance and a smile. “I’m sure if aesthetics were behind his reasoning, he would have demanded that you participate, Zevran,” she said. “You’re far more graceful than either of us.”

“Mm… I’m afraid our Warrior would disagree with you on that point,” answered Zevran cheekily.  

Later that morning, the company entered the Denerim Market for the first time since the day of the Landsmeet. The Mage was sure that she would not be alone in noting the occasion. This was also the first time that Denerim would see Loghain since his regency had ended on the Landsmeet chamber floor. He had left the city in disgrace; in the Mage’s opinion, it would be best for everyone if he could be seen to re-enter it as one of Ferelden’s two Grey Wardens, rather than as a subjugated conscript. Mac Tir, as usual, was walking behind and to the right of his commander. As they proceeded from the gates and towards the market area, the Mage subtlely slowed her pace so as to draw him up alongside her.

Evidently, Loghain was of the opposite opinion as to how he should appear to his former subjects. As she first slowed, and then shortened her strides, he adjusted his own pace to match. Within a few yards the Wardens, still maintaining their original formation, had begun to disrupt the rest of the companions behind them, so that more than one of them was forced to break their own stride to avoid having their toes stepped on.

“When I was standing immobilized in the Honnleath Village square,” remarked Shale more loudly than was necessary, “the villagers used to assemble on the green and form lines sometimes eight or ten bodies deep all around me.” The Mage could hear the golem’s shudder of disgust. “They wore flowers in their hair and played _awful_ jangling instruments, and then they all followed a leader and began to move in a big mass, back and forth.”

The Warden touched her hand briefly to her eyes.

“Back and forth,” repeated Shale in pointed tones. “At the time, I thought that such scenes especially angered me because the flowers and seeds and nuts and fruit that they brought with them on these occasions attracted all manner of loathsome flying creatures all around me.” The golem’s voice crackled with rage. She shook her head; the Mage could hear the grinding of the joints in her neck.

“Alas for my innocent and charitable heart,” she concluded bitterly. “I realize now that it was just an incredibly _stupid_ little dance.”

With gritted teeth and a heavy sigh, the Mage resumed her usual pace. If it was possible for a tread of boots to sound smug, she thought, those of her fellow Warden behind her were bordering on the insufferable.

She had decided to make the best of their time in Denerim by cashing in on a number of jobs and tasks that she had agreed to perform before the Landsmeet. One of these had been commissioned by the Chantry, so the company turned first into the little courtyard where Sister Theohild still stood butchering the Chant of Light. The cleric who watched the Chanter’s Board and dispensed coin in exchange for proof of deeds accomplished merely smiled at the company and emitted a verse in a kindly tone. The Templars at the Chantry door, however, glared openly at the former Regent. No doubt they had not forgotten that he had conscripted a blood mage to poison the Arl of Redcliffe. Presumably, thought the Warden, they must also have heard that the disaster in Kinloch Hold had begun with Uldred’s promises of freedom from the Chantry –to be granted by Loghain as a reward for the Mages’ support in the civil war. Mac Tir stood at attention behind his commander and ignored the glares, answering respectfully when spoken to but remaining otherwise silent. The Warden sensed that the Templars approved, were pleased to see the erstwhile Regent compliant and submissive –to a Mage, it was true, but one who was by all accounts a good girl.

Her errand completed, she turned from them and caught Loghain’s eye. Her fellow Warden’s face was as empty as that of the man who had awaited his sentence in the Landsmeet chamber.

“I guess they don’t like your mismatched armor,” she suggested drolly. He had insisted on wearing the River Dane gloves and boots, but had “borrowed” a chestpiece of heavy plate from Bodahn’s cart.

“Huh,” said Mac Tir, but his mouth twitched just a bit.

As they entered the Market proper, they encountered more commoners, children, and regular soldiers than Chantry representatives. Everyone stared, but some of the soldiers and citizenry looked with defiant respect at Loghain, addressing him proudly as “my lord”; one or two of them even saluted. They aimed disgusted faces at the Mage, as though scandalized by her gall in leading their hero like a conquered enemy through the streets of the city he had saved and served. The company had not passed halfway through the market square when Loghain coughed and, with a grumbling noise to match any of Shale’s, hove up next to his commander. The Mage smiled. The two Wardens proceeded through Denerim side by side, receiving stares of no more than curiosity from then on.

When they had reached the center of the market, The Mage signaled a halt and addressed the party.

“Morrigan,” she said, “you have some items to purchase in the Wonders of Thedas, do you not?”

The Witch, who had been sulkier and even more silent than usual over the past few days, nodded.

“Fine,” said the Mage. “You may use whatever our friend at the Mage’s Collective gives you for your purchases. When you’re through, you won’t mind waiting there for us, will you?”

Morrigan made a sarcastic bow and sauntered away. The Mage shrugged and turned back to the others.

“Lel, if you would be so good as to give these to the man from the Blackstone Irregulars in the Gnawed Noble,” she said as she handed the Bard a couple of receipts and a note that she had dug from her pack. “Afterwards, you may use some of the proceeds to make a few friends in the tavern.” She smiled. “Buy a round or two, see what gossip you can collect, that sort of thing.” Leliana smiled back eagerly; this was the kind of job she was best at of anyone in the company.

“Sten,” proceeded the Mage, “you go with her, in case anyone tries to get _too_ friendly. Everyone else stays with me.”

“Hey, why can’t I go and gather intelligence too?” objected Oghren. “I’m the life of the party, don’t you know. People tell me everything.”

“Probably,” said Sten, “they know that you will forget it as soon as you lose consciousness.”

“You are coming with us to Wade’s,” explained the Mage, “because he needs to fit you for your new set of dragonscale armor.”

“Me?”

“Think of it,” said the Mage. “The next time you walk through this market, you will be covered in High Dragon from your collar to your toes. No one will have seen anything like it.”

“Hey… yeah,” exclaimed Oghren, rubbing his beard. “Good idea, Warden; that’s the ticket. Heh, wait’ll Felsi gets a load of me in that. She’ll flip that bar over, she won’t be able to jump me fast enough.” He snickered to himself, eyes distant with lust. “I tell you what,” he said, “as soon as that Archdemon’s heart stops pumping, I’m heading for the Spoiled Princess.” He coughed in a conspiratorial manner.

“Say, uh, Warden –heheh—you think I could tell Felsi I took down Her Beloved Ugliness myself?”

“That’s up to Sten,” answered the Mage. “She was his kill.”

Oghren punched the giant gamely in the thigh.

“Whaddya say, there, buddy?” he asked. “You know what it’s like, huh? Ever pad the old resume to impress a girl?”

“No,” said Sten. “The mates of the Qunari are chosen for them by their elders, based on the Qunari’s _own_ merits. This is the only way to ensure a proper match and the continuation of –”

“All right, all right; forget I asked, you pompous meatwad. Sheesh.” He spat through his teeth in disgust. Sten turned away and followed Leliana’s back down the side street to the tavern.

“That guy is about as much fun as a cold Nug salad,” observed the Dwarf.

Outside the door to Wade’s Emporium, Loghain hesitated.

“I think –I’ll just wait out here,” he said.

The Mage frowned, but could see no reason why he _had_ to come in. She shrugged and held out her arms. “Fine,” she said, nodding at the damaged armor that was slung over Loghain’s shoulder. “I’ll take that in for you, then.”

Loghain looked at the Warden. He hesitated another moment, and then shut his eyes with a sigh. “Never mind,” he said. “I can run my own errands.”

“Suit yourself,” said the Mage as she held the door for him. “After you.”

As usual, the Emporium was empty of customers and Wade was nowhere to be seen. Herren, the proprietor, saw them come through the door from his spot at the counter. His initial welcoming smile turned to a grimace.

“Oh, my head,” he moaned, slumping against the counter and clutching his temples. “ _Both_ of you at once? Well, that’s this day gone to the scrap pile.” He looked up and offered the Wardens a sickly grin.

“And how may I assist you in ruining my life?” he asked.

“Is Wade in a working mood today?” said Mac Tir. “I have a damaged chestpiece that needs repair in short order.”

At the sound of Loghain’s voice, something clattered to the floor in the back room and was hastily swept up. Presently Wade appeared, wiping grit off his hands with a towel. “Your Grace!” he called out, beaming. “I mean, Your Majesty!”

He stopped, abashed, and put a hand over his mouth. “Hm, forgive me,” he said. “Force of habit.” He spared the Mage a bitter look before taking the dented chevalier armor from Loghain’s hands.

“This armor,” he clucked in admiration. “Well-worn, but still magnificent. And so fitting, for one such as—” He stopped himself with a nervous cough. “But I think it must not fit you anymore,” he continued, eyeing the Warrior. “You've lost weight since you left us.”

“Huh,” said Loghain. “Rather, staying too long at the Royal Palace was making me fat, I imagine.”

“Never!” Wade protested. “Why, every time I saw you pass by from our window, you always looked perfectly—”

“This armor fits me as well as it ever did,” said Loghain firmly. “I am prevented from wearing it only by these dents you see here.”

Wade looked more closely at the chestpiece and gasped.

“These are teeth marks!” he cried. He whirled on the Mage.

“What have you been doing to him?” he demanded. “First you starve him, and then you throw him to the wild beasts? They said you were heartless, but to think—” The smith grew nearly inarticulate with fury. “And there you stand just as cool as ever, not a hair out of place, not that there's much to disturb—”

“Actually I confess that I rather provoked this particular beast,” interjected Mac Tir as the Mage gazed placidly at the ceiling. “It was through the Warden's efforts that I sustained no damage worse than this.”

“Oh… well… thank you, I’m sure,” stammered Wade with a hasty, apologetic grin. “I mean, we all thank you – _Ferelden_ thanks you, that is—”

Loghain coughed. The Mage sweetly returned the armorsmith’s smile. “That’s quite all right, Wade,” she said. “Your concern is much appreciated.” Zevran snickered quietly to himself.

“I hope I may earn your thanks still further, though,” she added. “I believe you once told me to come straight to your shop if I ever came across some of these?” She held up a couple of scales that had once plated the side of the beloved Andraste.

The smith inhaled with an ecstatic squeal. He clutched at the scales greedily. “These –these are from a _High_ Dragon,” he said. “Mature, but not too brittle; substantial, but not too large – _perfect_. But how in Thedas did you get them?”

“His Grace here distracted the beast,” said Zevran, “by placing himself between her jaws.”

Wade looked shocked, but then shook himself back to attention. “Well,” he said, “we shall certainly make it worth your while, ser.” He flew to a shelf of tools and came back with a strip of leather that had been marked at regular intervals for measuring. “You shall have the most exquisite suit of dragonscale armor ever seen. Oh, I’ve been dreaming of this for years,” he crowed. “But it may take just a _tiny_ bit longer than I promised the Warden originally. Just to make sure that it’s perfect, you see. You may have to spend the night—”

“Wade,” interrupted the Mage, “the Hero of River Dane already has his armor. Could you see him in anything else?” The armorsmith bit his lip, reluctant to answer.

“The dragonscale armor,” said the Mage, “is for Oghren, here.”

The Dwarf, who had been conducting a ribald conversation with his flask throughout this scene, belched.

“Oh,” said Wade.

“What?” said Oghren.

“So,” said the Warden, “when can we expect that armor, Wade?”

“This afternoon,” answered Wade dejectedly.

“You’re the best,” she said with a winning smile. “We’ll be back in a few hours, then. Grey Warden business, you know, of some urgency. Can’t possibly stay.”

“Must we all go?” asked Shale unexpectedly. “The Casteless Smith’s forge intrigues me. I am curious to see how the humans practice Caridin’s art.”

“Of course,” said the Mage, “if Wade will give his permission.”

“Whatever,” muttered the smith. He tossed his head over his shoulder at the Dwarf and sighed. “Come on, then.”

“Watch where you put that measuring thingy,” said Oghren.

Outside the Emporium, the four remaining companions gathered their thoughts. The Mage grinned up at her fellow Warden; as she opened her mouth, he raised a hand to silence her.

“Not,” he admonished, “a word.”

The impending remark turned abruptly into a coughing fit that forced the Mage to prop herself against the side of the building for over a minute with her arm across her face. Loghain stood glowering at the square with Duty jammed on his head, which could almost be seen to steam lightly as he waited for her to recover.

“So, where to, then?” asked Zevran as they set off. “I would not mind a visit to the Pearl –not to spend any of our hard-earned war funds on whores, of course, my dear Warden. But perhaps the lovely and recently widowed Isabela has not yet sailed, and is still drowning her sorrows in ale and the blood of the foolish and unwary. I could offer my assistance in comforting her.”

“Actually, I wasn’t lying when I said we had an errand in Denerim,” said the Mage. “Though I may have exaggerated its urgency just a bit,” she added with a smirk.

She reached into her pack and pulled out a handful of documents. They varied in age, author and state of decrepitude. One parchment still carried a whiff of the Deep Roads as the Mage passed them to her fellow Warden.

“I have heard of this Vilhm Madon,” said Mac Tir thoughtfully after reading them. “He lives in a hovel in one of the back alleys here in town. I have never met him personally, however.”

“I am impressed, ser,” said Zevran. “No magistrate where I come from would ever bother to learn the names of every tenement rat in Antiva City.”

“I claim no such knowledge myself,” answered the former Regent. “This man is not your average tenement rat, however. He is alternately described as a decrepit old beggar, or as a proud, well-dressed, well-educated man. Yet there is only one Vilhm Madon and he lives alone. Also, he never leaves that hovel of his –not ever, as far as anyone knows. He has his provisions and other goods delivered to his door, which otherwise remains locked at all times. It may just be idle back-alley gossip about an old eccentric; there is plenty of that sort of thing in any town or village. But we were aware of him.”

“Well, he may not leave his hovel, but somehow the stories about Gaxkang lead back to him,” said the Mage. “It is possible to spread stories and rumors from the safety of a back alley, I suppose; but then what about this account here?” She pointed to the oldest of the documents. “A host of henchmen _pursuing_ the reluctant adventurer… where? To Denerim? Or is Gaxkang lurking somewhere else? And if so, why is Vilhm Madon acting as his procurer?”

“But,” Loghain argued, “ _is_ the Unbound spoken of in this document the same as in all the others? And if so, how?” He shook his head, frowning. “I don’t like it –and I’m not happy that such a thing, or such a person, has been operating in Denerim all this time with impunity.” He scratched at his temple. “All the same, Warden, is such a matter really worthy of our attention at this point?”

“I had never thought it important enough to take us out of our way, of course,” the Mage agreed. “But since we are in Denerim and have some time to spare, I would consider it a more worthwhile use of our time than others. You yourself said that it doesn’t look right. Hundreds of years apart, these messages –and yet it is always the same message, the same lure, the same fear. Not to mention that nearly everyone who pursues what the Unbound seems to offer has disappeared. If the same person is luring all these people to their deaths, it is unnatural and quite possibly demonic. If successive generations of persons are carrying on some sort of tradition, that could spell a different kind of danger. Either way, Vilhm Madon is involved somehow. And the army is gone, the city guards reduced to a minimum and those remaining naturally preoccupied by the Blight. It could not hurt for us to remove the spider from its web, if we can.”

Loghain shrugged, and sighed. “It beats hanging about out here, anyway, or ignoring polite stares in the Gnawed Noble.”

It took some time for the four of them to find the right door in the right alley. At first they followed Loghain’s recollection of the intelligence he’d received; when it failed them, they made inquiries, which produced conflicting results. Vilhm Madon seemed at once to live everywhere, and nowhere.

At last, they stood on a stone threshold before a plain wooden door. It looked like every other poor man’s door in Denerim, except this one bore the letters “VM” in a faded script just below the lintel. The Mage knocked politely.

“Hello?” she called out. “I wish to speak to Vilhm Madon. I was told that he lived here.”

There was no answer, but the Mage heard _something_ behind the door: a shifting. No windows faced the alley, but the Mage felt as though something inside was looking at them, all the same.

“We have come because of the stories of Gaxkang! We’re not leaving!” she said, her voice suddenly and unnecessarily shrill. The back alley turned blank walls and shuttered windows to them like cold shoulders and deaf ears. Only the house of Vilhm Madon seemed awake, receptive – _listening_. Still, no one answered. Then, they all heard the metallic tumble of the door being unlocked.

They waited, but the door did not open. All at once, the Mage understood.

 _He’s giving us a choice_ , she thought, _and waiting to see what we do._

She shivered suddenly, just for a moment; then she straightened her back, nodded at her fellow adventurers, and turned the handle.


	10. Sunder Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ancient legend falls to the Grey Wardens, and another priceless artifact is bartered for the war effort. Everyone is apparently too busy talking to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As always, I must thank my betas **Josie Lange** and **ShiningMoon** for kicking my perspective and my style into shape, and ShiningMoon for providing art which you can see by clicking the link to her gallery on DeviantArt. A couple reviewers of my last chapter must also be given credit (or blame, as the case may be ;P), as the Keening Blade would not have received nearly as much stage time in this chapter if they had not expressed an interest in it. See, reviews do make a difference!_
> 
>  _And of course, credit must be given to BioWare for creating the Dragon Age universe, including Gaxkang... damn them._

In many respects, the dwelling place of Vilhm Madon was exactly what anyone would expect to find in that part of town: a single living space with no inner doors, the front room separated from the back by an enormous stone fireplace set into the wall that left only a narrow opening into what was presumably the resident’s sleeping quarters. But the Warden did not need to feel Alpha tense and bristle at her side to know that something about the place felt –not wrong, exactly, but _off_ , as if the room itself was ever so slightly out of focus. “Hmm,” said Loghain, and that about summed it up.

A man had emerged from the shadows of the back room and stood regarding them in the firelight. “Hmm,” echoed Zevran, looking at him. Alpha began to growl softly. At first, the Mage could not decide what felt off about him, either. He stood upright, proud, with no sign of old age’s debilitation or decay. His hair, however, was nearly white, and lines normally associated with age adorned his face, though the skin itself was smooth and full as a young man’s. The lines themselves seemed – _perfunctory_ somehow, she thought. Suddenly, the Warden realized what it was that bothered her. Vilhm Madon looked like a bad painting –a rendition of an old man by an artist who had never actually seen one in his life.

The man, whoever he was, did not seem frightened or angry at suddenly having armed and suspicious guests in his front room. He did not even look surprised. If anything, he looked relaxed, even amused: arms crossed unconcernedly behind his back, eyes brightly flickering over the faces of his visitors as if he was actually quite tickled to see them.

“Grey Warden, is it?” he asked pleasantly. “Strange, that I should rate such a visit in a time of Blight,” He rocked forward and then back on his toes, like a small boy with a secret. “And the Regent, as well? I _am_ honored.”

“You are also mistaken,” said Loghain. “I am no longer Regent. Your information is outdated, Madon.”

“Ah,” said the man. His face made a bald mockery of disappointment. “Yes, circumstances are certainly –fluid, these days,” he said. “It is difficult to keep up. But what can you expect from a poor old shut-in such as myself?”

His eyes danced, inviting them in on the joke, and the Mage understood that Vilhm Madon’s pretensions were not meant to fool anyone at all –unless a visitor came seeking to be fooled, of course. Loghain looked him skeptically up and down.

“I think you insult our intelligence, ser,” he said, “or else you sadly overestimate your powers of disguise.”

“On the contrary,” answered Madon. “I would have insulted your intelligence by attempting any disguise at all. Even your rather splendid hound knows why you are here.” He shook his head knowingly at Alpha, who bared one large tooth.

“What is the Unbound?” asked the Mage.

The man seemed pleased to be asked, and to indulge the Warden’s curiosity. “I had heard that you were a scholar,” he said. He rocked up on his toes and back again.

“The Unbound is exactly what it says,” he declaimed. “It is freedom. Freedom from death, from life; freedom from pain and want and worry. Gaxkang is bound to nothing, and so Gaxkang has everything –everything and anything.” He opened his hands to them and smiled. “It is this freedom that they seek, the ones who follow the stories,” he said. “They seek what the Unbound has to offer, which is whatever they wish: whatever they think they need to become Unbound themselves.”

“It sounds a bit like the Fade,” said the Mage.

His neck bent once in what might have been a nod or a bow. “A fair analogy, Warden,” he answered. “Mages in the Fade take on some of the nature of the Unbound; all creatures but the Dwarves do also, when they dream; most of all, when they die.”

“I have met some madmen in my time who also fall into that category,” said Zevran.

The eyes glittered in the firelight; Madon’s small, tight-lipped laugh sounded again. “If lunatics, dreamers, and the dead are the Fade,” he said, “then Gaxkang is the Black City: always in sight but never in reach; promising the secret and the forbidden; home to the divine and the cursed each in their turn.”

“And you consider yourself the mouthpiece of Gaxkang in this world, I take it?” asked Loghain. “Are you his representative, or his slave?” He waved a derisive hand at their surroundings. “What would that make this place, then –the Black Hovel of Denerim? Huh,” he scoffed. “In my opinion, Madon, you have been swindled just as badly as the unfortunates you’ve lured here.”

The Mage raised a hand to interject, like a student signaling for attention in class. “You say that the Unbound offers the freedom of each heart’s desire; but the stories we followed here promised treasure only,” she said. “Surely, Gaxkang does not mean to say that great wealth spells freedom for every person alive?” She shook her head. “That sounds a little –banal, really, for one with such mystical opinions of himself.”

“Nor would it be true,” said Zevran, “though I say it as one who knows what it is to own nothing. In some ways, a state of absolute poverty can be very liberating.”

“The stories are set deliberately to entice a certain kind of seeker,” said Madon smugly. He cocked a finger and a knowing look at the Mage.

“You wonder how it is that the string of disappearances has gone for so long unchecked, Warden,” he said; she nodded. “It is because Gaxkang knows better than to meddle with those who might be missed. He targets the small-minded, the greedy, the desperate. These are adequate for his purposes. Those who know such people will not be surprised when they do not come back, and will not seek to discover what became of them. These stories, which you find so banal –to the right kind of seeker, they glow like beacons in the dark, promising safe harbors of ease and idleness. The adequate ones find the beacons, and – _I_ find _them_.”

“We are not the first non-treasure-hunters to visit you, Madon,” said Loghain. “I happen to know that Howe sent some of his men round here shortly after the Alienage uprising, looking for traitors and subversives.”

“Those men met an old, deaf, filthy recluse,” said Madon, “as do all those who come here without an invitation.”

“Then why have we met you?” asked Loghain, gesturing at the figure before him. “You knew the Warden Commander on sight. So does everyone else in Ferelden. And though I am no longer Regent, there are those who might still look for me, if I were suddenly to vanish from the earth.”

“Indeed,” agreed Madon. “Eyes are on both of you from a very high vantage, Grey Wardens. But even if I were to appear to you old and feeble, would you let it rest? Once your great quest was finished, would you not seek the answer to the riddle?”

The Mage nodded solemnly. “I would,” she said.

Vilhm Madon shook his head. “And then I would become nothing more in this world than a minor aside in the tale of the great Grey Warden and the Blight of Dragon Age. No,” he said, and his voice grew suddenly cold, stern, implacable. “I cannot hide in your wake. But I will not be a footnote! Witness Gaxkang!”

“I –what?” said the Warden, and then she felt that _shifting_ again. It was more than just a noise or motion; she felt the fabric of energy that connected her to the Fade twist, and knew that the part of her that always walked there was being _moved_. The Mage gasped, her mind choked by the toxic atmosphere of her enemy’s domain. She recognized the taste of it. It felt like the time she had fallen on her back during a training exercise in the Tower. She had sustained a deep knot in the middle of her spine where she could not reach, and the thick, grating ache of it inside her was maddening. Its affliction was a sickness that no purge could cure, a shortness of breath that tightened with each inhale, a weakness in the limbs that engendered a hopeless fury. The healers in the Tower had mended it as soon as they could, but not before she had threatened to blast out the knot herself with all the spells at her command. All of that had happened years ago, but she had been reminded of that feeling for the first time just a few months before, at Redcliffe Castle, when she had encountered the corpse of a man possessed by a Pride Demon.

“Revenant!” she called out.

“ _Braska_!” cursed Zevran. “I _hate_ these things!”

Everyone in the company had learned or been told what to do when “Revenant” was called. Those wearing lighter armor knew the importance of keeping away from the heavy, slashing strokes of the Warrior’s blade. Zevran would apply the assassin’s Mark of Death to draw his comrades’ attention to the enemy’s vulnerable spots, and then keep his knives well coated with poison and aimed at the Revenant’s back. The Mage would serve up paralyzing and healing spells as needed, as often as possible. Above all, everyone would stay in motion and surround the Revenant so that it could neither fix on a single target, nor strike everyone in the party all at once. It was not a perfect strategy, by any means, but it was the one least likely to require injury kits when the battle was over.

However, it appeared that Gaxkang –and how long ago, wondered the Mage briefly, had the real Vilhm Madon died and surrendered his body to the demon known as the Unbound?—was familiar with this strategy and had anticipated something of the sort. As his enemies fumbled for their weapons, he positioned himself in the gap in the wall by the fireplace, filling the narrow space so that he could not be surrounded. The Mage saw him draw a long, cold sword; it rang with the dull, deadly tones of iron in winter, or of the darkest corners of the Fade: high and lost and desperate. He drove the point of the sword into the floor of the hovel and the Mage felt her body being pulled by Gaxkang as her spirit had been moments before. Like four beasts tethered to the same stake, she and her companions were dragged against their wills into the shadow of the Revenant.

Alpha howled; the Mage, as soon as she could wield her staff again, sent a Paralyzing spell directly into the demon’s face. Gaxkang halted with his sword in midair; Zevran slipped under the frozen blade, applied the Mark of Death, and darted away. All too soon, however, the Revenant began to stir. Loghain raised his shield and drove the edge of it with short punishing bursts into the demon’s solar plexus. Gaxkang appeared not to defend himself at first, though the Mage could see a shield of his own resting against his back. Instead of reaching for it, he spread his arms wide. A wave of entropic energy burst from his outstretched hands and over the four of them. The Mage felt suddenly that she could barely lift her staff; Loghain cried out as his shield faltered on the last stroke and nearly pulled him over with its weight.

“Steady, everyone!” shouted the Warden. Leaning heavily on her staff, she flung a spell of disorientation at Gaxkang, which missed, and then another paralyzing spell, which held the Revenant just long enough for everyone to back up a pace or two and shake off the aura of weakness that had enveloped them. Regaining his feet, the Mabari growled and advanced on his enemy; on the Mage’s right, Loghain did the same. Zevran’s blades danced in the firelight, gleaming with Crow poison. The Starfang clashed with bright singing fury against the hollow knell of the Revenant’s blade; the Assassin’s knives darted behind his enemy’s knees, slashing and retreating. Alpha’s jaws clamped down on Gaxkang’s free hand that reached for his shield.

Then the Fade shifted again, the form of the Revenant twisted, and the Mage found herself looking at the Pride Demon’s other incarnation: the obscene mitre and grinning half-skull of the Arcane Horror.

“Look, Warden!” shouted Loghain over his shoulder. “A Warrior that turns into a Mage! What _will_ they think of next?”

“Shut up!” she yelled.

All at once the Warriors and the Rogue found their strokes going wide of the mark. Loghain roared in frustration as the Starfang waved ineffectually just shy of his enemy’s robes. The Arcane Horror rose and called forth a cascade of ice over Loghain’s head and shoulders. The Mage, hearing Alpha’s strident barks, turned and healed her frozen Champion, who shook himself and aimed the Gwaren shield with murderous rage at the demon’s midsection. The shield, just like the weapons, missed. Zevran cursed again, picked up a chair and flung it at Gaxkang. It struck the demon in the face, causing no damage; the Mage noted, however, that thrown objects did not seem to be subject to the misdirection hex that Gaxkang had cast on them.

“Zev!” she called out. “Bombs!”

“Ahead of you, boss!” came the Elf’s answer, followed by a blast of electricity.

He was not fond of them, preferring the more elegant silence of poison and backstabs, but Zevran did possess the skill to make grenades that carried a certain amount of elemental damage on top of their concussive force. As the company regularly inured itself against the Mage’s lightning spells, he kept a stock of electrically charged grenades at his belt so that he could throw them at need into a crowd without fear of damaging his comrades. He began now to toss these at Gaxkang, giving himself and the others time to recover and wait out the effects of the misdirection hex. The demon seemed discomfited by the unexpected attack, and Zevran laughed. The Rogue’s bombs earned a cheer from Loghain as well, while Alpha barked fiercely and sprang forward, teeth and claws bared.

Just before he reached his mark, the Mabari dropped suddenly in a heap on the floor. The others gaped at him, but could not move a muscle as Gaxkang stunned them all with a blast of magic that made their ears ring. When the Mage cleared her head, the Revenant stood once more before them. It held its shield before it now, broad and square, emblazoned with a snarling wolf’s head. The Warden glanced at her companions. They were not as quick as she to shake off the stunning spell, and lay or stood motionless as the great cold blade swung down. Fortunately, however, they had managed to split up just enough before being immobilized so that the blow could fall on only one target. The Revenant’s sword bit into the joints of the armor at Loghain’s sword arm; as he jolted awake he cried out in pain. The Mage, wincing, healed him. Zevran and the Mabari stood, regaining their bearings, only to be dragged forward once more with the others by Gaxkang, who towered over them all, seemingly untouched by any of their efforts.

“I am really getting tired of this,” remarked Mac Tir as the Pride Demon shifted and became the Arcane Horror once again.

The Champion squared his shoulders and drove forward with a flurry of blows and shield bashes before the next misdirection hex could hit him. When it did, Zevran stepped forward and resumed his barrage of shock bombs. All the while, Alpha barked and howled and did his best to knock the demon over, or at least throw it off its balance by yanking at its limbs or robes with his teeth. The Mage alternated lightning spells with arcane bolts, watching her companions carefully as Gaxkang froze, stunned or hexed them, healing each of them as needed.

After only a few minutes –though it seemed an age since she had opened the door to Vilhm Madon’s hovel and walked inside—the Mage was more exhausted than she could remember being. Her mana was almost completely depleted, and she had cast more healing spells in a short time than she ever had in her life. Gaxkang gave her companions no time to heal themselves with poultices. The others were also showing fatigue, falling back into defensive postures now more often than not, striking out only when they could gather enough strength. Zevran threw his last grenade and gave his Commander a sad, shaky smile as it burst, jolting the demon but failing to bring it down. Then the Arcane Horror stunned them all again.

The Mage came to a few seconds later to see the Revenant with its back to her; the others, less resistant to magic than she, faced Gaxkang in a quiescent row. Alpha lay once again crumpled on the floor. Loghain and Zevran stood side by side, slumped forward, helpless. The backs of both of their necks showed palely in the firelight. Their heads were close enough that one stroke of a longsword would part them both together from their shoulders.

The Mage, bent with weariness, gathered the last of her mana and sent forth a Paralyzing spell. It struck the Revenant’s helm and bounced harmlessly away.

The Pride Demon’s blade whistled mournfully as it rose. Gaxkang gathered his strength.

Gritting her teeth, the Mage reached for a short knife that she kept at her side, a knife that she had used in the past only for skinning and cleaning game, or for cutting the bonds of prisoners in the Arl of Denerim’s estate. Now she grasped the handle and plunged it into the flesh of her left arm, just above the elbow. At the same time she reached into the Fade and her memory, finding strength in the blood that poured from her. Her lips formed words she had heard months before in an old man’s voice, trapped in the tower at Soldier’s Peak.

Blood burst from the suddenly gaping wound, driving the Mage to her knees, but a surge of spirit energy went with it, driving into the heart of Gaxkang. The Revenant’s arm wavered as it strove to keep its balance, and the finishing stroke never fell. Loghain, Zevran and Alpha woke, shook themselves, and fanned out, resuming the attack from as many angles as they could reach. The Mage, still on her knees, fumbled with shaking fingers in her pack until she found a lyrium potion. She rose even as she downed it, feeling strength and clarity flooding back through her. Planting her feet, she shot a lightning bolt squarely between the demon’s shoulder blades.

Whereas before he had treated them as challenging but still ordinary adversaries, opponents with which to toy as a cat would with a mouse, now for the first time Gaxkang seemed truly enraged. With a gesture of contempt, he cast an aura of weakness over her three companions. Then, in a whirlwind of Fade shifts that left the Mage dizzy, he froze them in place as the Arcane Horror and changed swiftly back to the Revenant, leaving his place in the chokepoint between the two rooms of the hovel to bear down on the Warden and the Warden alone. Though she knew it was pointless, the sight of him caused the Mage to step back, pursued by the snarling wolf’s head, until she ran out of room before the great fireplace. Gaxkang’s sword rose and fell; the Mage’s defensive spells blunted the force of the attack, but they would only hold out for so long, and she could feel them weakening. She twisted and ducked, sending out blasts of lightning and arcane bolts when she could focus, but she was tired, and Gaxkang was as fast with the blade as Loghain, or faster, and the blows raining down on her would not let her focus for long. Her spells were weak; but still she lost mana, and still the blade sang its hollow song as it struck at her.

The demon took its damage as well, however, and yet did not transform back into the Arcane Horror. The Mage wondered why –it would seem the sensible thing for Gaxkang to do, as its arcane form would naturally have a higher resistance to magic—until her store of mana began once again to reach its ebb. The Fade, she noticed, was dead on both sides in this room. Could Gaxkang finally have reached the limit of his magical reserve, and be unable to cast? She felt a faint lift of hope: she may yet, she thought, lead everyone out of this unharmed. If she could just hold out a little longer—

The Revenant struck; the Mage heard a tearing sound and felt a blast of air on her middle. Had he cut through her robes? She looked, and saw a crease in her abdomen that had not been there before. Blood was gushing from it. She staggered, and the blow that was meant for her neck missed, but the pommel of the great sword collided sharply with the back of her head. As she fell, she heard a bellow of rage, followed by an Antivan battle cry and a volley of deep-throated barks. Her last vision before the blackness descended was the wyvern of Gwaren rising up behind her enemy and crashing down between his shoulder blades, along with a furious lash of blue fire.

* * *

The first sense to return was her hearing, and the first voice she heard was Zevran’s.

“That, as a man I once knew used to say, is a lot of blood,” it said.

The voice came from quite nearby. From the sound, he must be hovering over her somewhere close. From the pull she felt in the taint, Loghain was, too. Alpha she could hear padding and panting back and forth across the floor of the hovel. Everyone was all right, then. That was good. If everyone was all right, she would be able to stay where she was, prone on the floor with her face buried in the crook of her arm. When she had lost consciousness, she had also lost the ability to sustain the Rock Armor and Arcane Shield spells that protected her. Since the night that their camp was attacked by Darkspawn a few months ago, she had kept the spells cast around her even as she slept. They gave her far better defense against both physical and magical damage than her robes would indicate, but the spells had a tendency to dull her senses somewhat. Now she felt as though large hands had been cupped to her ears, turning every whisper into a shout. The little room reeked of sweat, of blood, and of Mabari; Alpha had evidently expressed his opinion of Gaxkang by marking something close by. The idea of opening her eyes on top of everything else made her nauseous.

“I can’t see where it all comes from, can you?” said Loghain. “Perhaps we should shift her?”

A scrape of light boots on the floor as Zevran took a step back. “Perhaps we should first move this—” here the Elf said something uncomplimentary in Antivan—”that has fallen on her. At least some of the blood we see here is his, I believe.”

As he spoke, the Mage did indeed feel something loathsome draped over her lower legs. She clenched her teeth against an even stronger urge to be sick, relaxing only when the two men grasped the cloak and rapidly decaying form of Vilhm Madon and began to heave it off her.

Zevran chuckled amidst his grunts of effort. “Truly, my friend,” he said to Loghain, “your vengeance is swift and brutal. I am surprised that this Gaxkang even had time to turn around before he became suddenly Unbound all over his parlor floor.” He chuckled again. “Normally I would envy any man who I found lying on top of our brave Commander, but this time, no… “

The scraping noises and the Elf’s chatter moved away. Alpha came to her now, nuzzling at her arm and trying to lick her face. Groaning, the Mage rolled partway onto her side. The warhound bathed her cheeks and chin in greeting, then sniffed the wound on her abdomen. He whined softly.

“Alpha,” whispered the Mage. “My pack… “

The Mabari gave a gentle _woof_ and padded away, returning presently with the Warden’s pack in his teeth. Still delaying the affliction of sight for as long as possible, she located a health potion by feel and downed it with her eyes shut. She remained with her head down, feeling a part of her strength return. A clatter sounded from the far corner of the room as Loghain dropped his end of Gaxkang and came back to crouch by her feet again. She knew he was looking at her, waiting for her to acknowledge him; but she could not, not yet. It was still too much, too close in that room without her armor. Instead, she wrapped an arm around Alpha’s neck and clung to him close, lifting her head at last, seeing only the warhound’s solemn brown face and worried eyes.

“Good boy, Alpha,” she said to him. “Stay just a minute and help me, please.”

She braced her arm against his shoulders and felt behind her for her staff. When she found it, she pulled back just enough to cast her gaze across the slice that the Revenant’s blade had made in her middle. The movement caused a fresh outpouring of blood from the wound. She heard the hiss of Loghain’s breath and a brief reactive jerk of his armor. Once more she shut her eyes, and pointed her staff at the wound. It was deep, but she could sense that the cut traversed only skin and muscle. She saw the broken flesh in her mind; focusing her energy, she first visualized and then felt it knitting together. The Mage drew one deep breath, and another.

Slowly she rotated to a squatting position. Loghain was opposite her; she could see the toes of his boots and his gloved hands dangling off his knees. Again she gripped her staff, bracing it against the floor; in her vision’s periphery she saw the gloves twitch and lie still. With a determined shove, she hoisted herself to her feet. Loghain, caught by surprise, abruptly rose with her. The Mage swayed for a moment, eyes still on the ground, making sure that she would stay upright. At last, she allowed herself to look up.

A broad swath of armor; not as bulky as the chevalier plate, but filling her immediate field of vision as her gaze travelled slowly upward. Bloody streaks and spatters flushed deeply in the firelight. Loghain was very still before her. A proud neck, graceful and strong as a charger’s, gleaming with sweat. The knot in his throat worked tautly under the skin. The jaw, set and bristling after battle, the nose a high arch over which heavy-lidded eyes regarded her, the dark brows above like spread wings. A smell of sweat, ashes, death. The Mage swallowed, trying not to look as if her knees were threatening to give out.

“Thank you,” she said, sturdy and businesslike. “That was well done.”

“Huh,” he said, his breath making a small breeze between them.

She coughed. “Sorry I yelled at you earlier. I was out of order.”

A slight twitch at one corner of his mouth. “Pray don’t mention it.”

She sighed, hefted her staff. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I should—”

“We have healed ourselves, thank you. Alpha, too.” Dimly in the background, she could hear the warhound polishing off a rejuvenating piece of Mabari Crunch.

Everyone was well; everyone would be healed. The Mage let out a heavy, trembling breath. Her fist clenched fiercely at her side.

“He nearly had us all just now,” she said harshly. “And for what? Because _I_ had to solve a riddle.”

“As it turned out, you were right,” said Loghain, “again. Had I known what lurked in this hovel, I would have been through here with a troop of soldiers years ago.”

The Warden shook her head sharply, causing her to lose her balance. She swayed for a moment on her feet. Loghain eyed her closely, but made no move to help her. The Mage blinked several times to clear her head, and passed her hand weakly over her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is rather embarrassing. I’ve never –he just came at me so fast –I—”

“Hush,” said Loghain. “Even the best of us fall, at one time or another, Grey Warden.”

“Mm, now _this_ should fetch us a pretty price in the Market,” piped in Zevran. “Once we get the blood off of it, of course.”

The Mage peered over Loghain’s shoulder. The Elf held the Revenant’s sword by its pommel. One edge was coated with the Warden’s blood; she could feel her own taint calling her. The blood –she could _feel_ it—was slowly freezing on the blade.

She stumbled out of the hovel and stood leaning over the doorstep, praying to Andraste that she would not be sick. Loghain appeared in the doorway, looked at the Mage and then around at the alley, and went back inside. He returned with an old cloak from inside the hovel and threw it to his commander. “Here,” he said. “You’ll scare the locals to death, looking like that.”

She nodded and began to pull the cloak on over her torn and bloody robes. Suddenly she stopped. “Oh, Maker,” she winced, putting a hand to her eyes.

“What is it?” asked Loghain.

“Leliana,” said the Mage. “She’s going to have kittens when she sees this, isn’t she?”

He smirked and allowed himself a chuckle. “Most likely,” he agreed.

The two Wardens sat on what used to be Vilhm Madon’s front doorstep and looked around them. The back alley had returned to life with the death of the Pride Demon. The Mage could see no one in the neighboring tenements, but she could hear and smell them. Someone sang in an upstairs apartment as they washed their linens; downstairs, someone yelled at a cat, who yelled back and scrambled for safety. Across the way, someone lit a wood stove and put a kettle on; someone else opened an oven and took out freshly baked bread. The Grey Warden smiled.

She also noted the man sitting next to her. He still smelled of sweat and blood, but she now detected a dim, leathery undertone as of old books, and a sharp herbal smell that she guessed was the leaf he chewed. He watched her recover, a small frown making his eyebrows lean towards each other. His eyes, she thought, were a truly shattering shade of blue. Even when she examined the stains of Gaxkang’s blood on her boots, she could still feel their gaze like a burning-glass against her cheek. When she felt better enough, she stood up, raised her staff, and called the Rock Armor back around her. The air just above her skin seemed to thicken and harden, pushing away the sharp edges of the cold and sheathing her in a layer of numbness. Next came the Arcane Shield; the barrier went up before her eyes and the world was once again filtered from her vision, acquiring a slight blur to which her eyes would need a few minutes to adjust. Loghain watched this performance curiously. When it was over, he lifted his chin and made a wry face.

“Ah,” he said.

The Mage smiled and opened the cloak briefly to one side, exposing the slashed tunic. “You didn’t think this was my only armor, did you?”

Zevran and Alpha joined them, along with everything of value they could carry. In addition to Gaxkang’s warlike accoutrements, they had also found a significant amount of coin and several large and valuable jewels. It was not quite the king’s ransom that the stories had promised, but it was enough to make the Warden consider the afternoon not entirely wasted.

“Boss,” said Zevran, holding up the wolf’s-head shield for her inspection. “Could I ask you to attend your magical eye to this? It is enchanted in some way, I’m sure, but I cannot tell exactly how, or to what degree.”

The Mage examined the shield and whistled. “It is indeed enchanted, and quite heavily,” she agreed. “The enchantments are various, but they all aim at increasing the user’s defense, whether against physical or magical attacks. It is meant to feel like a wall between its owner and the enemy.”

“I believe it,” said Zevran. “My arms feel as if I had just been pounding on such a wall for hours.”

“You should keep it, then,” said Loghain to his commander.

The Mage shook her head. “No,” she said. “My natural resistance to magical attacks is higher than that of almost any Warrior. And I do not plan to start flinging myself into battle with sword and shield after only a few lessons.”

“Indeed you shall not,” rumbled her instructor.

The two Wardens looked at each other for a long moment. Loghain’s lower jaw worked against the upper as he considered. At last he sighed, slung the Gwaren shield over his shoulder and held out his hand.

“Why not,” he said, accepting the shield and hefting it on his arm. “Pretty silly of me to still be carrying the old one, now that I think of it. Look, Alpha,” he added, showing the wolf’s head to the Mabari. “My new crest. What do you think?” Alpha barked his approval.

Zevran and Loghain divided the rest of the spoils between them, and the four companions struck up an easy pace back to the market. As they walked, the Mage rolled up the rather too-long sleeves of the cloak and used her staff to address the gash in her left arm. Loghain, watching it disappear, frowned.

“That’s a knife wound,” he said. “The Elf didn’t stick you by accident, did he?”

“No,” said the Mage. “I did that myself.” She sighed. “It’s a trick I learned from old Avernus –my one Blood Magic Trick. Don’t look at me like that,” she added as Loghain’s eyebrows delivered a sharp note of censure. “I didn’t commission Avernus’s research,” she said, “but the fruits of it were gathering dust in that laboratory of his when I paid my visit to the tower at Soldier’s Peak. I figured at the very least, I could make sure the poor bastards who died for that knowledge did not suffer for nothing.” She shook her head.

“I’d never actually performed that spell before, though,” she said. “I’ve never had to. But I’d do it again, under the same circumstances.” She looked at him steadily. “Those few seconds it bought us saved our lives.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in using a person unwillingly for one’s own gain,” said Loghain. “Isn’t that what blood magic does?”

“This particular trick can only be done with blood from the caster’s own body,” she answered. “So, no –not _all_ blood magic uses the blood of others. But it too often leads to that, even if the Mage begins with good intentions. Each drop of blood gives more power to the caster, you see. And cutting oneself is so tedious, and there’s so _much_ of it available elsewhere.” She cast a questing eye at the pulse in Loghain’s neck. He snorted.

“If you’re trying to frighten me, Warden, you’re wasting your breath,” he said. “ _You_ have no need to look outside yourself for a source of power. But,” he added after a moment, “if an average Mage is made powerful by the use of blood, how much _more_ powerful would a Mage like you become?” He gestured at the pommel of the Starfang that stuck up between his shoulder blades. “Wasn’t that your philosophy when you bullied me into taking this sword?” he asked. “Are you saying that you have never been tempted, or wondered what you might do with just a little more—?”

“I have not,” said the Mage abruptly. “I will use my own resources and abilities in my magic, no one else’s.”

“Not even to advance one of your noble causes?” prodded Mac Tir.

“No!” She twisted her lips and looked away. “—no. I wouldn’t,” she said.

“Aha,” said Loghain. “You _didn’t_ , you mean. What happened?”

The Warden sighed. “At Redcliffe,” she began, “when the Arl was poisoned—”

“When the blood mage that _I hired_ poisoned him, you mean, yes, I think I’ve heard this story.”

“No, it was after,” said the Mage. “Eamon’s son, Connor, he –he wanted to try to cure his father, so he snuck into Jowan’s room and stole a book of magic spells that Jowan had forbidden him to read. I don’t know what he thought he was going to find in there, or why he thought that he would be able to cure the Arl when no one else could… “ She shrugged. “Anyway, all he managed to do was attract a rather powerful demon. With no training –just a boy—Connor had no chance. The demon possessed him, and started to ravage the castle and the village below.”

“I’d heard about the trouble they had there,” mused Loghain. “Walking corpses, night terrors and all kinds of nasty things. So Connor was the source of it? What did you do?”

“We fought our way up to the castle and found Connor in –in that state, with the whole household under his –under _its_ —thumb. Jowan had been thrown in the dungeon for poisoning the Arl, but he was brought up under guard to help us get rid of the demon that his influence had helped to bring over. He said –” she exhaled through clenched teeth—”he said that he could send one Mage into the Fade to fight the demon and destroy it in its own world, without hurting the boy. But for the power that he required to do it, he needed blood. Someone else’s blood, and all of it. Otherwise we would have to fight the demon in this world, and Connor would die.”

“I see,” said Loghain. “So to save the boy’s life, someone else would have to sacrifice theirs. Were there any volunteers?”

“His mother, of course. She offered herself up right away. But the final decision was left up to me.”

Loghain lifted an eyebrow. “Isolde still lives, I know that.”

“I couldn’t decide,” said the Warden heavily. “I thought that with more information, a sign, a clue, I might know what to do. I—” She stopped, looking suddenly weary and old. “I went _looking_. I poked and dug around all inside the castle –in Jowan’s room, in Connor’s. I tried to solve the puzzle, just as I did today. I tried to pretend that there _was_ a puzzle. But I knew all along. The boy, if he lived, would be a somewhat untrustworthy Mage who would bear the responsibility for his mother’s death and the deaths of half the villagers under his father’s patronage. If Isolde lived, however, she would have grief, and anger, and some measure of guilt –but also freedom from worry, and at least some chance to help her family rebuild. And there would be no need for Jowan’s blood magic.”

The Grey Warden sighed. Mac Tir said nothing.

“We were able to –entice the demon outside of its host, into its true form,” she continued at length. “We hoped that if it manifested as a separate entity, our killing it would sever the connection and send the demon back to the Fade.” She shook her head. “But the bond it had forged with Connor was too strong. When the battle was over, his body was broken beyond repair. There was nothing left to do but end his suffering.”

“I see,” said Loghain very quietly, and the Warden believed that he did.

“What would you have done?” It was not a defense, but a sincere question. Loghain blinked.

“Well, _I_ would have been sorely tempted to take the little Orlesian twit up on her offer,” he answered drily. “But in all seriousness, between the two of them it was the boy who was the abomination, while –in this _particular_ case—the only thing of which Isolde was guilty was being an overprotective parent.” He chuckled. “Which, mercifully for parents everywhere, has not yet been declared a capital offense,” he said.

“Clearly,” said the Mage with a smile.

Zevran had remained silent throughout this discussion, but the Mage noticed a darkness in his countenance that was unlike what she had come to expect from him.

“From your face, it would seem that you disagree, Zev,” she said curiously. “Would you truly have chosen the beautiful woman to die instead of Connor?”

The Elf looked up from his intense study of the street paving. He seemed caught out for a moment, but quickly resumed his usual smile. “I had not, of course, yet entered your service when these events took place, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I was informed of them by that other Warden whom we shall not name. But based on what he told me, yes. I would have let the woman die. She was his mother. She was responsible.”

The Mage blinked in genuine surprise. “You think she should have sent Connor to the Circle?” she asked. “She should die for the crime of wanting to keep her son?”

“The other Warden asked the same question,” said Zevran. “ _He_ had been abandoned by two fathers: the one who gave him life, and the one who had raised him. He saw nothing but virtue in the idea of a woman unwilling to cast off her child. But I will tell you this.” He cocked his sharp assassin’s eye up at his commander. “I was raised by whores, and the pimps who owned them, from the time I was born until I was sold off to the Crows. I had several mothers and fathers, by that reckoning. A big, happy family, all together, yes?” The smile was lighthearted and expansive; it was the smile Zevran always displayed when telling outlandish stories of his past. Then it was gone, and the Mage saw that darkness pass across the Elf’s face again, leaving a shadow there. He shook his head.

“But I _was_ abandoned,” he said. “Not when I was sold to the Crows, no. I was abandoned right there in that whorehouse. How? Because though they did not cast me off, no one took responsibility for me.”

The two Wardens regarded their companion silently. Alpha pushed his wet muzzle into the Rogue’s open palm and made a comforting noise. Zevran patted the warhound’s head absently, but the bitter expression on his face remained.

“And so it was with this woman,” he continued. “She had a son who was a Mage, which is a problem in your country, and she acted out of cowardice. She kept him at the castle, why? For _his_ sake? No, or she would have taken charge of him, of his life. She did nothing –not even after he began to go astray. She thought only of her own feelings, her own fears. The boy, cursed from his birth by circumstance, was left to fend for himself, and used whatever means he found to hand. It so happened that he became a maleficar and caused destruction among his family and his people. But his mother was responsible.” He folded his arms and resumed looking at the street in front of him. “If it had been up to me, she would have been made to feel that responsibility,” he said.

“You don’t think she feels it now?” asked the Mage.

He shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose. I have not known many people who would feel guilt over causing the death of another. Who knows, she may be such a creature.” His mouth twisted as he considered. “But, she did love him, so perhaps… “

He looked up suddenly at the Warden. “Even if she does feel it,” he said, “you have just argued that guilt may fade over time, and be replaced by hope. Does it?”

“I would like to think so,” she answered. “Do you not believe that it could?”

The Elf gave a small, sad smile. “I could not say, my lady,” he said.

* * *

“You reek of blood,” said Morrigan as the Mage approached her in the Wonders of Thedas. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

“Later,” said the Mage, shushing her. “But it’s because of this, and because I reek, that I can’t go into the tavern to fetch Leliana and Sten. Could you go with Zevran, please, and meet me at the armorsmith’s?”

“Oh, what fun,” answered Morrigan, rolling her eyes. “Perhaps I can get there before the Bard finishes serenading a room full of tipsy snobs with the tale of Princess Rainbow and the Star Knight.”

She nodded to Zevran and the two of them sidled out, heading for the Gnawed Noble. The Mage found Loghain staring at one of the walls of the shop, on which hung an old and well-travelled map, preserved behind glass. He was frowning –not in scorn, but in concentration.

“Tell me,” he said to the Tranquil proprietor. “What purpose does something like this have in a magic shop?”

“In addition to magical items and artifacts,” answered the Tranquil smoothly, “we also carry a variety of antiquities. That is a map—”

“—of the ancient Tevinter Imperium, yes, I can see that,” said Mac Tir. “But _how_ ancient? I had such a map in my estate here in Denerim, which is dated to about the ninth century; but the borders on this one are different –unless the wine staining the corner there had also caused the cartographer’s hand to wander.”

“It is correct, for what has been judged to be the fourth century of the Imperium,” intoned the proprietor. “You have a good eye, ser. Would you like to—”

“But that makes it even more curious how such a thing came to be _here_.”

“Mages of all nations owe much to the Tevinter,” said the Tranquil. “They are responsible for much of how we live, what we learn—”

“Like blood magic, for instance,” said Loghain, “the misuse and fear of which I’m sure is at least partly responsible for your present condition.” He nodded. “Yes, you have a lot to be grateful to them for – _if_ you were allowed.”

“The Mages of Tevinter are respected even today,” said the Tranquil, as the Mage silently thanked the Maker that he was incapable of taking offense. “I understand that you yourself brought some to the Alienage, when our own healers could do nothing to cure that terrible plague that was afflicting the Elves. Did you not?”

Loghain, of course, had no such handicap. “You may also have heard,” he answered harshly, “that they failed in their mission.”

“I find myself in need of a couple of strong lyrium potions,” said the Mage. “Would you be so good—?”

“I shall see what we have in stock, my lady,” said the proprietor. “Most of the stronger potions we had were sent to Redcliffe, of course… A moment, if you please.” He moved away to a back room of the shop. The Mage returned to stand by her fellow Warden, who was still staring intently at the wall.

“The interesting thing about maps,” he explained to her as she drew up alongside him, “or one of them anyway, is not only how the borders on them change over time, but how they provide clues about the people who made them.” He spared her a glance. “Someone once said that we are all called what we are,” he said wryly. “I would amend that slightly to say that we are called what the people who name us _think_ we are. Well, the same is true with the territories and landmarks on a map.” He turned his attention back to the wall, pointing to the various features behind the glass.

“You can tell much about the nature of the time in which this map was written by noting what the things on it are called,” he said. “At one time, or to one group of people, a city like Denerim could be called the center of commerce, the heart of Ferelden’s culture, or the seat of her royal family. To others, however, it is the stronghold of the enemy and a primary target.” He smiled grimly. The Mage peered with new interest at the faded lines and ancient nomenclature.

“Also,” continued Loghain, “this map contains several marginal notes, which are often quite illuminating. These are additional data that the cartographer thought either of personal import, or else possibly of interest to the public. Notes such as these will tell you as much about the man who wrote them –his knowledge, his opinions, his beliefs—as they will about anything he describes.”

The Mage bit back a grin. _I’ll bet he has no idea_ _how much he sounds like Dagna right now_ , she thought.

Loghain made a small noise of frustration behind his teeth. “If I had my own Tevinter map with me for comparison, I could show you better,” he said.

“You said it’s at your estate, here in Denerim?”

“Yes; well, it was at any rate when I left, along with several others. I had this one in my quarters at the Palace, so it came with me.” He nodded towards the pouch at his side. “Maker only knows what has happened to the rest of them. Or to anything else there, for that matter.”

“Why would they not still be there? It is your estate, after all.”

“It is the Teyrn of Gwaren’s estate,” corrected Loghain. “As I no longer hold that title, my personal possessions have no business being there. Legally, the people have every right to chuck them all in the harbor.”

“But surely Anora—”

“—has better things to do as Queen in a time of Blight than to take thought for her disgraced old father’s maps.”

“There is time yet left in the day,” said the Mage. “We could stop by and check, if anyone is there to let us in.”

“And then what?” he scoffed. “I thank you for the sentiment, Warden, but even if we should find every possession in my study untouched, I would not be able to carry them all away on my back. They will either be there when this is over, or they will not. If they are not, I would rather not know when or how they disappeared.”

The Tranquil returned with a couple of fresh lyrium potions. “Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked.

The Mage thought swiftly. “You know, I may just have a quick look around,” she said. Turning to Loghain, she addressed him as artlessly as she could. “There’s no need for you to hang about here,” she said. “Why don’t you take Alpha and head on over to Wade’s, make sure he’s on schedule with that armor of yours?”

To her surprise, Loghain made no inquiries or objections. “Right,” he said, and called Alpha to heel with a whistle.

“While I’m there, I’ll see how much he can give me for this blasted thing,” he added, taking Gaxkang’s sword from behind his back as though it was a burr. “It’s been making a whine in my ears the whole way over here. Or a high-pitched moan, more like, if there is such a noise.”

“Keening,” said the Tranquil suddenly. Both Wardens turned to him. He was staring at the Revenant’s blade with a look in his eyes that approached a faint echo of desire.

“Keening, that’s it,” said Loghain, pointing the sword at him. “Exactly. Maker, it’s annoying. I’d rather not have to hear that all the way back to camp, if you don’t mind,” he told the Mage; but she was looking at the Tranquil, whose hands were opening and closing as though following some primal impulse to grab.

“The first of the Mages,” he said hoarsely, “the first to truly study their craft, that is: it is said that once they had learned to cast their conscious beings into the Fade, they set out to explore its terrain, learn its secrets, and if possible, conquer its inhabitants. Much as their earthly counterparts did in the physical world,” he added, gesturing at the map on the wall. “They did not conquer, of course, but they learned much; and they met spirits of greater and lesser power just as Mages do today. But there were four who were especially powerful, and especially dangerous to all who encountered them.” He licked his lips. “One, it is said, wielded a sword that froze the bones of its adversaries with a powerful sting of cold, and froze their hearts with a song of hopelessness and death. The ancient Mages named it the Keening Blade, and the demon who wielded it was known as the Unbound.”

“That’s the one,” said Loghain.

“Impossible,” protested the Tranquil.

“Called himself Gaxkang, did he, and spouted a lot of nonsense about beacons and the Black City? We met him this afternoon,” said the Warrior, “though I confess he didn’t look quite as old as all that. Anyway, here’s his sword, and the sooner I’m shut of it the happier I’ll be. So if you’re quite through ogling it, I’ll be off.” He moved towards the door, Alpha padding along behind.

“Wait,” said the Tranquil. Loghain stopped in the doorway and turned, eying him with a growing impatience.

“Perhaps I could take it off of your hands now,” said the proprietor coolly.

Loghain frowned. “Are you serious?” he asked. “I could easily get enough gold for this from any weapons merchant to buy half a dozen good, serviceable swords for our soldiers in Redcliffe. Are you saying that you’d offer as much –for an _antiquity_?”

“Well,” said the Tranquil, “we would have to verify its origin, of course, but—”

The Mage, seeing her fellow Warden beginning to bristle, stepped between them with her hands raised. “Perhaps I should handle this,” she said to Loghain. “Go on to Wade’s and see to your armor, and leave the sword here with me. If this gentleman and I cannot reach an agreement, I shall bring it along when I go to meet you.”

He stuck out his chin and glared at her, but reversed the blade and presented her with it hilt first. “As you command,” he said, and stalked out.

The Mage laid the sword on the counter. “You heard him,” she said to the Tranquil. “Half a dozen serviceable swords: that’s somewhere between six and eight sovereigns, depending on the material and the merchant. That means I need at least as much from you, if you wish to keep this antiquity for the Wonders of Thedas.”

“My lady,” he protested, “with all due respect: if this is not genuine, then it is worthless to us. We need to verify—”

“—and verification takes time,” said the Mage, “which I don’t have. Pay me what a weapons merchant would offer; then if your verification fails, you can sell it to a weapons merchant and get your money back. But the sword _is_ genuine. At least,” she added, “if the person we encountered today was _not_ Gaxkang, I would hate to meet the real one.”

The Tranquil looked at the counter and scrunched his lips together, considering. “You say it is worth six to eight sovereigns as a _sword_ ,” he said, “but I am no weapons merchant. I have no way of knowing—”

“I say it is worth that much because Warden _Mac Tir_ says so; and he should know if anyone does,” said the Mage. “Or do you doubt his veracity, or his judgment? Shall I fetch back the man who may well have slain Gaxkang the Unbound, and tell him that you don’t believe him?”

They stared each other down.

“Six,” said the Tranquil.

“You must be joking,” huffed the Warden. “Wade will give me more than that, without question.”

“Six and a half.”

The Mage folded her arms.

The proprietor sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “Seven,” he whispered.

“And the map,” said the Mage.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The map,” she repeated, pointing at the wall. “It’s for sale along with everything else, isn’t it?”

Now it was the proprietor’s turn to fold his arms. “That was not,” he said, “part of the bargain.”

The Mage cocked her head and thought for a moment. Then, signaling to him to wait, she unslung her pack and dug around in the bottom for a couple of dragon scales that Wade had rejected as being broken, flawed, or of an unusable size. These defects, she knew, would not matter to the Tranquil, because the scales could be ground into powder and added to some highly saleable potions. She located two of a decent size and held them up.

“High Dragon,” she said. “Not an easy ingredient to acquire. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Would you like your map inside its protective casing,” said the proprietor, “or out?”

“Out, please,” answered the Warden pleasantly. “We’re travelling.”

* * *

Morrigan and Oghren were standing outside the door to the armorsmith’s shop. The Witch studied the people in the marketplace from one of the building’s shadows, while Oghren displayed his new outfit to all and sundry.

“Check this out, Warden,” he called out as she approached. “Badass red. Supple as a nug’s undercarriage. And absolutely pisses on fire spells. Go on,” he challenged her, tucking his beard inside the chestpiece and then spreading all four limbs wide. “Blast me. Give it all you got.”

Smiling, the Mage indulged him with a short burst of flame to the midsection. The spell evaporated off the new armor like a mist, leaving the Dwarf beaming with his fists in the air.

“Nothin’!” he shouted. “Not a singe, not a blister. Everything’s as cool as Branka’s brassiere. Archdemon, here comes Oghren!”

The Warden laughed. The door to the shop opened and Loghain emerged, clad once again in the full chevalier plate with the borrowed armor slung over his arm. “Everything’s finished,” he said. “He’s just waiting for you to pay him. And there’s a place inside where you can change.”

“See if he will burn that repulsive thing for you afterwards,” said Morrigan, nodding at Gaxkang’s old cloak.

“Change?”

“Look,” said Leliana, who had followed Loghain. She held up a piece of body armor. It was made of reinforced leather, the same weight as both Rogues wore. It had a high collar and a low sash around the waist, and had clearly been designed for a lady.

“Much better for you than those robes,” said the Bard contentedly. “And I think it should fit you without having to get it adjusted, no?”

Bemused, the Mage took the armor from her and held it at shoulder level. It did seem as if it would fit.

Loghain coughed. “It was the best I could get for –in the trade,” he said. “Some knight had it commissioned for his bride-to-be, apparently, who was learning to be a swordfighter; only they fell out and he called it off before the set was finished, I don’t know. I stopped listening, to be honest,” he said wearily. “Anyhow, all Wade had was this piece; but that’s really what you needed, after all.”

“You said you traded for it,” she said, still puzzled. “What—”

And then she saw it: the Gwaren shield was missing.

The Mage bit her lip and looked hard at the armor in her hands, her brow knit fiercely against the lump that rose in her throat.

 _Damn him_ , she thought.

“What’s the matter?” asked Loghain sharply. “You can turn it white later, can’t you?”

* * *

That evening, in camp, the Wardens sat side by side in front of the fire. This had become an unspoken habit between them ever since the Deep Roads –to sit, sometimes in conversation, often in silence, in the space between the end of supper and the beginning of the first official watch. They had not sat together in this way since the day they had sparred, and the Mage had feared that something she could scarcely name was broken between them. On this night, however, after the Wardens had sent Eamon’s emissary galloping back to Redcliffe Castle with a purse full of gold and jewels, they had each walked back to the fire and sat down in their accustomed spots without thinking. They stared solemnly into the fire for several minutes without speaking or looking at one another. Then Alpha came over and flopped on the ground at their feet, exposing his belly to the Mage and his chin to the Warrior with a grunt and a wriggle. They laughed, and obediently scratched; and eventually the Mage was able to smile and Loghain to relax and stretch his shoulders and neck a bit.

“I take back what I said at Soldier’s Peak,” he said suddenly, after Alpha had wandered off to mark something on the edge of the campsite.

“There was a lot of talk at Soldier’s Peak, if I recall.”

“Yes, but there was one thing in particular… “

“Go on, then.”

He cleared his throat. “I suggested that you were operating on some childish set of fanciful morals,” he said. “That you were as yet untried in the real world, and that you would be incapable of making the necessary hard choices if and when they should be presented to you.”

“Ah, that.”

“You, of course, knew at the time that I was wrong; you do not need me to tell you that. However, I would like you to know that I know it now, as well.”

“Thank you,” said the Warden.

“It’s quite enviable, actually,” continued Mac Tir. “You still manage to hold fast to your ideals and principles, and hold your head up high as you’re forced to break them. It’s not hypocrisy, either; you seem fully aware of the depth your sins, and yet would still commit them if given a second chance.” He shook his head ruefully. “I was not able to do the same,” he said.

“Hang on a minute,” said the Mage, “There isn’t a man in Ferelden who holds more tightly to a principle than you, and you know it.”

“That’s my point,” he answered her. “I knew it so well that I forgot that my principles were things I was supposed to serve. I got so used to being the last man to stand for his principles that I started to think it made me superior in some way to everyone else. I actually thought that I was the best person available to unite this country against the Blight –the only person capable of doing so.”

The Mage gave a short laugh. “Well, I don’t know about the _only_ person,” she said scratching at her temple, “but you probably were the best, all things considered. I mean, who would _you_ want leading your country to war? An experienced General and war hero, or an unsocialized, untried girl-thing, only recently let out of her cage?”

He chuckled. “And yet we were both wrong: for here you are, commander of armies; and here I am, your humble servant.”

She sighed. “It’s rather a shame, isn’t it? I mean, it was kind of impossible, since you kept calling me a traitor and trying to have me killed; but if we’d ever had a chance to just meet and talk, we probably would have joined forces long ago, and have a smashingly equipped army by now.”

“And that’s just it,” said Loghain sadly. “I couldn’t imagine that anyone else shared my will and my determination. I had to do everything myself, and would have destroyed you without ever knowing what you truly were.” He shook his head. “You, in my place, would have talked to me first. You try to talk to everyone first, to give them a chance. Maker’s breath, you even tried to recruit that lunatic Kolgrim and his bunch.”

“I like to present everyone with a choice, yes, and the opportunity to take it freely, or not.”

“Hmm,” he answered with a grimace. “One of the drawbacks of having principles, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is how often you must expect to be disappointed.”

“I’m rarely disappointed, actually, no matter how they choose. Mostly I’m just –curious. To see how each one reacts.”

“Ah yes –the scholar, of course. Detached, studying us all. You don’t ever really get angry, do you? I don’t mean momentarily annoyed, but really furious?”

“Rage is not a healthy emotion to have in the Circle,” she said drily.

“You have a point there,” he answered, nodding. “I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

“But even in the Circle,” sighed the Mage, “it’s true that I was always considered something of a cold fish.”

Loghain thought for a moment. “Owl,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Not a fish; an owl. I used to see them all the time when I was a boy.” He propped his forearms on his knees and spread his hands in the firelight. “They nested in the barns and sheds of the farms round our way,” he said. “At night, you could sometimes watch them hunting, if you were quiet enough.” He nodded. “Quite fascinating, owls. At rest, they look like somewhat comical, moon-faced lumps of fluff; but see them in action, especially when they’re hunting, and you realize they’re quite—” he blinked, nodded a second time—”impressive. Powerful. Nearly silent, until they strike. And they know precisely how and where to target their prey, even in the dark.” One hand rose and rocked, splayed flat just above his head; the other dipped low to the ground, the heedless victim. “They just watch, and listen, hovering, until they’re ready; and then—” The splayed hand became a fist and struck the palm of the other with a _Pow!_ sound. “That’s you,” he said, pointing at the Warden. “Not a fish.”

“An owl.”

* * *

The company took the road southwest out of Denerim for a little over a day and a half. Around noon on the second day they passed South Reach; after stopping for lunch they left the road, striking more directly south across the bare western slopes of the Southron Hills.

The Mage’s lessons with Leliana continued. Sten had also begun his instruction of Oghren in the Reaver’s technique, so their campsites were lively, and noisy, in the mornings. Morrigan and Shale both complained, with predictable results.

They passed through the former Dalish campsite and were hailed by the Werewolves and the Lady of the Forest, who assured them of their fealty to the Grey Wardens and their determination to fight the Blight at the Commander’s side. As they left the Drakon River behind them, Loghain allowed Leliana and Zevran to take turns relating the story of Zathrian’s curse and the fate of the Brecilian Elves. The Warden said nothing.

The next morning, the Mage got ready to turn the company south-southwest again. Loghain looked at the sky and sighed.

“We’re actually going back there, aren’t we?” he asked her. “To Ostagar.”

“If we can,” said the Warden, “I think we should. Don’t you?”

“I must do as I am told, no matter what I _think_ ,” griped Mac Tir.

“So we’re going, then,” said the Mage, and cocked a biting eye at him. “But first, we’ve got another errand to run –one that will no doubt serve to cement our reputations as a lot of cold-blooded bastards.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“We’re going to go kill Morrigan’s mother.”

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	11. Flemeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan's mother does her best to cause as much damage as she can before she exits the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Author's Note: As always, many thanks to those who read, especially those who fave and alert. Cookies and love go out to those who review; feedback of any kind is always welcome! And extra special heaps of Sten-worthy cookies to my betas, **Josie Lange** and **ShiningMoon** , for patience and help and inspiration and stuff. :D **ShiningMoon** has also produced an illustration for this chapter which appears at the bottom of this page and in her [deviantArt folder](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/gallery/30742763); click the link to see it and all of the other wonderful art she has produced for this behemoth of a story._  
> 
> _As in Chapter 8, I have substituted fire-resistance potions for Warmth Balms, as it seems much more practical in a combat situation to chug a liquid than to ask a dragon to wait while one smears salve all over oneself._  
> 
> _Mild spoilers in this chapter for The Stolen Throne; the mildest of warnings for language._  
> 
> _As always, BioWare owns this universe; I just have fun in it._
> 
> * * *

“I am staggered,” said Morrigan. “I was beginning to think that you had forgotten our little agreement –or perhaps that you only kept promises concerning inanimate objects purporting to have a soul.”

“She did more than find Sten’s sword,” said Leliana. “She helped Shale, and Alistair as well.”

“And your point would be—?”

“Let me understand this,” said Loghain. “Your next course of action as Grey Warden Commander is to murder an old woman in cold blood –and her daughter _approves_? I am under your orders, of course, so explanations are not required; but why in Andraste’s name would we do this?”

“Because if we don’t, she will kill Morrigan in the near future,” answered the Mage. “Or at least, Morrigan believes she will.”

“Her mother disapproves so strongly of apostates, does she? How tragic.”

The subject of Morrigan’s mother had not arisen amongst the company since before the Landsmeet, so Loghain was unaware of her name or her identity. To inform him that the old woman was an apostate herself –and a potentially unbalanced one—might increase his enthusiasm for their next task, or it might cause him to protest against what he would consider an unnecessary risk. The Warden considered her answer carefully.

“Well, Morrigan won’t stay with us unless we do this for her,” she said at last. “And if she leaves us, I shall be the only healer in the party. So you see how we’re kind of stuck.”

Loghain shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So tell me, just for my own amusement,” he asked, “why _I_ would want to do this?”

The Mage thought for a moment. “Because she saved me and Alistair after the Tower of Ishal was overrun, thus setting in motion the chain of events that led you to your current place as the newest member of the fabled Grey Wardens of Ferelden,” she answered.

“Ah,” said Loghain. “That will do nicely. Thank you.”

The Mage blinked in surprise. “That’s it? You’ll agree to help me kill this old woman just for that?”

Loghain shrugged. “No doubt you’ll try to talk to her first, Warden,” he replied with a smile. “Who knows: maybe it’s all a misunderstanding between the two of them and everything will be patched up. Morrigan’s mother might even pack us a lunch for our journey to Ostagar.”

As they approached the Korcari Wilds, the slopes of the Southron Hills became densely overgrown; tall firs draped with moss and lichen blocked their view of the paths ahead. A recent fall of snow had nearly melted away, leaving slicks of chilled mud on the hills’ sides and icy swamps at their feet. The Warden’s map was of little use in helping her choose the best route through the frozen mire, being too small to show every available woodland path. After several checks and backtrackings in search of easier ground for walking, Loghain opened the pouch at his belt and reached for his own map, which was much larger.

The Mage heard the now-familiar rustle and swallowed nervously. Loghain had not opened his map in their travels since before their latest trip to Denerim; unbeknownst to him, however, the Mage herself had. For the better part of two days she had kept the map of the Ancient Tevinter Imperium that she had procured for him hidden in her cloak, waiting for the proper moment in which to present it. The moment, however, simply refused to arrive. Her fellow Warden seemed always to be busy, or preoccupied with something, or not in an ideal mood to receive gifts. And it seemed to the Mage as if someone else was always _watching_. Of course, there had never been such a thing as a truly private moment between any two members of the Wardens’ company for as long as they had travelled together. But the Mage had never felt as exposed as she had over the past two days, whenever she had looked at Loghain and her hand strayed to the gift she had hidden under her cloak.

She had cursed her feebleness: what was wrong with her? The Mage had given gifts to all of her companions before –even to Loghain himself, back at Soldier’s Peak. But the giving of that gift on that crisp morning seemed to her like an episode from another life, or from one of her wanderings through the Fade; the gift itself –half a gift and half a jab, as Loghain had perceived—a thing she had passed with little thought to a man she barely knew. Now her Champion walked at her side, and she knew his presence as she knew the breeze on her skin or the heat of the campfire at night. She felt him with more than just her tainted blood; she believed that she could tell to an inch, without looking, how close he stood to her at any moment. The others must sense it too, she thought –the thrumming energy that radiated from her, like the buzz of electricity off her staff just before she released the tempest. Threads of energy reaching out from her like the questing setae and antennae of moths; and they must see, they _had_ to see, how she quivered like a moth when the old Warrior drew near.

The night before, when Loghain was taking his turn at that camp’s bathing spot, the Mage had sauntered casually over to where his pack and other belongings lay on the ground in front of his tent. Feeling ridiculous, feeling like a coward, and sure that anyone watching would see through her clumsy subterfuge, she had taken Loghain’s map from his belt. It was folded into panels, each displaying a specific area of Ferelden in meticulous detail. On that night, the panel that marked the lands surrounding the village of Haven had faced forward, the village itself and the temple of Andraste recently added in their proper places. The Mage had made a show of scanning Loghain’s map intently. She had had the Tevinter map up the sleeve of her cloak, clamped to the hem under her curled fingers. If anyone had asked, she would claim to be studying the relatively wild and unknown territory they were about to enter, in order to determine their best course for the following day. No one had asked; no one, it appeared, had seemed to care. The Mage had relaxed her hand and allowed the Tevinter map to drop out of her sleeve. She had slipped it between the panels of Loghain’s map, closed it with what she hoped was an intelligent and above all indifferent expression, returned it to its place amongst Loghain’s things, and walked calmly back to her tent. Once inside, she had alternately wrapped her arms around her middle to calm her fluttering nerves and beat herself silently about the head for being such a ninny.

Now, at last, Loghain wanted his map; now he had removed it from its place at his side, and now came the familiar snap as he opened it with a flick of his wrist. Almost instantly, he checked with a grunt of surprise and nearly stumbled; the Mage heard a rattle of armor and a crumple of parchment, and guessed that he had registered the foreign object as it slipped free and had caught it reflexively before it dropped into the mud. She forced herself to keep walking. She heard the opening and smoothing of the ancient parchment, felt his gaze on it. He would recognize the map instantly as the one from the shop in Denerim, of course; but would he know the gift for what it was? Did she even want him to? Would it not be better for him to think of it as part of his Commander’s efforts to strengthen morale amongst her recruits? She set her face to the path ahead and walked. There was a long pause, and then a heavy crunching of boots as he drew up alongside her.

The storm of energy, swirling between them: she the channeling rod, questing skyward, he the roiling fury of the clouds. Surely the Mage was not the only one who felt it?

His jaw unclenched; she heard him swallow roughly and draw in a long breath through his nostrils before he spoke.

“Wasting funds—”

“I traded for it,” she answered quickly without looking at him.

He tried again. “Valuable goods—”

“A couple of worthless dragon scales, too small and too damaged to make anything useful in the way of armor. The Tranquils can grind them to powder and make potions out of them.”

“And these potions—”

“—take a month to mature, and are used primarily for arthritis and women’s complaints.”

At last she turned to face him. He blinked, and then frowned; for a fleeting moment he looked troubled, but his brows soon re-knit themselves into a more familiar pattern. With short, brusque jerks of his hand he flipped the panels of his own map until the one matching their surroundings faced up. He thrust the map at the Warden.

“We’re here,” he barked, stabbing a finger at a spot about halfway down the left-hand side. “Don’t get us lost.”

He dropped back to his own place and buried his nose in the Tevinter map. He looked up briefly once or twice when the terrain became particularly rough, but otherwise focused his attention on the gift, trusting his Commander to guide him. Biting the insides of her cheeks, the Mage studied the map of his country that Loghain had drawn over his long years of traversing her. _The interesting thing about maps_ , he had said in the Wonders of Thedas, _is how they provide clues about the people who made them_. The Mage regarded the parchment fondly. Each panel was marked in its interior with numbers indicating areas of interest; along the margins, each number received a description –sometimes just a name, in other places several lines of information. These were often written in a series of symbols and abbreviations almost like a code, though the Mage suspected its purpose was as much to conserve space as to conceal anything.

Most of the notes were obviously older; those not providing place names usually marked which Banns presided over which areas of Ferelden. In these cases, the shorthand appeared to give information about the Banns’ loyalties, proclivities, or political leanings, or else the area’s natural and human resources. The Mage turned the map over; now the panel facing her showed Lothering and its surroundings almost as far west as the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad. A more recent note was scrawled, carved, with deep ink strokes next to the number marked for the village of Lothering:

 _Langar  ↓_   _| 2 GW_   _^ 1 F-Ch (!) in Dane’s Refuge._  
 _Rep 2GW: F-Mg (recruit; eyes) + M-Wr ~ CT._  
 _TO treason, regicide. WoM_  ↔   _with refugees. 1T ea. to 7,9_.

The numbers 7 and 9 referred to the two main roads that branched out from Lothering and into the lands beyond. ‘Dane’s Refuge’ was the name of the inn in the village in which she and Alistair had encountered a handful of Loghain’s soldiers. It was during this confrontation that they had met Leliana, then still a cloistered sister. The Mage studied the first line of Loghain’s note. She could not tell who or what ‘Langar’ was, but guessed that ‘2 GW’ must refer to two Grey Wardens. She had told the soldiers who survived the scuffle in Dane’s Refuge to take a message back to General Mac Tir that the Wardens would be in touch with him; evidently, they had done so. The symbol immediately following ‘2 GW’ could be a sign of augmentation, she thought; texts in the Circle library used something similar in spell formulas to indicate when two simple spells should be combined to form a more complex, more powerful one. If that were the case here, then the two Grey Wardens had been combined with –what? With Leliana, of course. A female in Chantry robes.

Guided by Loghain’s map, the Mage led the company onto a reasonably dry and obstruction-free track that proceeded more or less in the direction they needed. She began to puzzle out the second line of General Mac Tir’s note. _So_ , she thought, _if ‘F-Ch’ in the first line is a female from the Chantry, then ‘F-Mg’ must be… me. Duncan’s latest recruit. The one with the eyes, apparently._ She blinked. _The two Grey Wardens are myself plus a male Warrior_ , she continued. In the Circle, the symbol ~ was often used to denote similarity, as when describing two herbs or minerals with similar properties or effects in spells and potions. So what, or whom, did Alistair resemble? That was clear enough. The Mage had been too inattentive to notice it herself at the time, but Loghain would certainly have marked the traits and features that Duncan’s protégé shared with his king, with Maric’s son.

 _He noticed my eyes_.

Furiously she flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and frowned at the map. The panel below this one should include the fortress of Ostagar. What notes, she wondered, might he have written next to _that_ number? With a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned over the parchment. There were, indeed, several notes in the margin of this panel, but the one that caught her eye first was an older note, a single, brutal word:

 _WITCH_.

Next to the note was the number 4. The Mage scanned the map itself, but already knew where she would find the marker: just north of Ostagar, near the dead end of the Imperial Highway. Flemeth’s hut.

“Oh yes, this begins to look familiar,” said Morrigan cheerfully. “I believe I took some of my first moonlight runs as a wolf in these woods. We are nearly there.”

The Mage glanced over her shoulder. Loghain had raised his head to look around him. Suddenly he halted, his expression frozen over. The whites of his eyes flashed as he took in their surroundings and the panel facing in the Mage’s hand that confirmed their location. It was to Morrigan, however, that he spoke first.

“Your mother,” he said, pointing on a line from where they stood to where Flemeth’s hut was marked on his map, “lives _there_?”

“Yes,” said Morrigan. “About an hour or so’s march that way, I believe, on the other side of that hill. Perhaps you have heard of her? She is called Flemeth, or sometimes the Witch of the Wilds. Her name carries quite a legend of fear amongst the small-minded and the ignorant.”

“Then let us thank the Maker that I am neither,” said Loghain, “for I shall feel no fear when I am called upon to kill her. But I have heard the fairy tales of the wild Witch called Flemeth, and I know that an apostate who claims to be this Witch lives in a hut close to where we stand now.”

“How wonderful,” droned Morrigan. “That will spare you the tedious introduction. Shall we get on?”

Loghain did not move, but turned on his commander. “And you,” he said accusingly. “You knew of this all along, did you?”

“I knew that Morrigan’s mother is a Mage who calls herself Flemeth,” she answered. “I was unaware of the legend attached to that name until Morrigan herself told me of it, some weeks after we had left her mother’s hut.”

“They didn’t tell you her story in the Circle? Not even as a cautionary tale?”

“To caution us against what?” asked the Warden with a snort. “A powerful Mage living in relative peace and safety on her own in the Wilds for hundreds of years –taking lovers, raising children and killing pesky Templars at will? No, I don’t imagine they would want us ever to hear that story.” Morrigan chuckled grimly at this.

The Mage led the company on. Loghain tucked away his gift and glowered at the surrounding countryside as if daring Witches to emerge from the swamps beside the path, or to descend raving from the trees. Soon they stopped for their midday meal, after which the Mage rose and addressed the company.

“As you know, we have two errands to fulfill in this part of Ferelden,” she said. “We must confront Morrigan’s mother, and we would like, if possible, to send a small expedition into Ostagar.” The others stirred; they knew what Elric Maraigne had told the Wardens before he died. “However,” she continued, “we have no idea if Ostagar has been deserted by the Darkspawn now or if they are using it as an aboveground fortress. Therefore, we need to scout the area before we venture inside.” Loghain nodded, but said nothing.

“I do not think it wise for either of us Wardens to be in the scouting party,” said the Mage. “We might sense any Darkspawn in the area before the rest –but the Darkspawn, of course, would also be drawn to us. This would be bad if it turns out there are far more of them than us around. Therefore, we shall split into two groups from here. Our two Rogues will take my map, make themselves as undetectable as possible, and search out the area.” She addressed the Bard and the Elf. “You will not engage any enemy unless you are forced into combat; you will use stealth and quickness and bring a report back to Flemeth’s hut of the general population of Ostagar and its activities.”

“And if the entire population of Ostagar were somehow alerted to our presence, and came after us?” asked Zevran.

“Then, you will bend over and kiss your waggly ass goodbye,” growled Oghren.

“Not to worry,” answered the Mage, smiling. “I am sending Oghren with you for protection –and Alpha as well.”

“Me?” yelped the Dwarf. Alpha answered him with a rousing bark.

As the company stirred and prepared to leave, Loghain called the Warden off to one side.

“If restraint is required,” he asked quietly, “would you not be better off sending the Qunari?”

The Mage shook her head. “I had thought of that,” she said, “but Oghren is lower to the ground, so he’s less likely to be spotted. I shall have to trust him to keep his rage in check unless it is called for. Besides, I need Sten with us, as well as Shale.”

“Why them in particular?”

“Because they will not be moved to pity by the figure of a lone old woman. Not that Oghren would; but Flemeth is a talker. She loves to keep people confused and off their guard by sounding both wise and mad at the same time. Oghren might allow himself to be distracted, but neither Sten nor Shale will even bother trying to listen to her –and neither of them have any love for Mages.”

Loghain raised an eyebrow in the direction of the Qunari, who was waiting patiently at the edge of the path for his commander. “None at all – _kadan_?” he teased.

The Mage lifted one corner of her mouth in reply. “They follow me because I released them both from captivity and certain destruction by the Darkspawn,” she said. “I’m quite sure that they would have preferred to be obliged to a Warrior for their lives, if they must be obliged to anyone. But there it is.”

Leliana took the Warden’s map from her hand and nodded to her fellow scout. Together they walked to where a gap in the woods showed a track that would lead them to Ostagar.

“Well, it’s been fun, Warden,” growled Oghren as he stumped past to join them. “Just, you know, in case we get dusted by the entire sodding Darkspawn horde or something.”

“Just remember,” said the Mage, “you cannot blend into the shadows as Zevran and Leliana can, so let them go first and clear the area before you follow. Morrigan will be keeping an eye on all of us from the air and can offer you guidance and help if necessary. In the meantime, be as silent as we all were the first time through the Deep Roads. If you make too much noise, Zev has my permission to gag you –which I am sure will give him a great deal of pleasure.” Zevran, overhearing, obliged them with a crooked smile.

She turned to find Loghain staring at the Witch. “You will not come with us?” he asked incredulously. “You would send us on an errand to kill your own mother, but you dare not look her in the face?”

“Flemeth _wants_ me there when she dies,” answered Morrigan testily. “When her body is destroyed, the demon that inhabits it lives on in this world for a short time before it is sent back to the Fade. It has been Flemeth’s plan all along to have me nearby at that moment, to give the demon another earthly vessel to fill. I was bred and raised specifically for this purpose.”

He snorted. “A convenient excuse.”

“‘Tis most inconvenient, actually. Do you think I prefer to leave such an important task to others, while I keep a safe distance and await the outcome?”

Loghain grunted a non-response and turned away to grab his pack where it rested on the ground. As he slipped it over his shoulders, his brow suddenly furrowed sharply.

“Hang on,” he said. “If _you_ are not present when Flemeth dies, would the demon not simply target the nearest Mage available?” His glance shifted to the Warden.

The Witch curled a plum-colored lip. “Even _if_ she were to deem that Mage an acceptable alternative,” she answered snidely, “no other body than mine would suit her. As those who have been paying attention will have noticed, most demons occupying a mortal frame either share it with its original owner –retaining two voices, two aspects, two personalities, and so on—or else they take over the body completely, producing a very obvious abomination in an uncontrollable state. Neither of these options would serve Flemeth’s purpose. She needs to be able to take full control of my body, but still to retain _my_ face, _my_ voice, _my_ manner. A ritual must be performed on the intended vessel in order to prepare it; only the most powerful of demons possess the ability.” The Mage thought at once of Gaxkang and Vilhm Madon.

“So,” argued Loghain, “help us to kill her before she has a chance to perform this ritual, then.”

Morrigan expelled an impatient breath through her nose. “’Tis far too late for that,” she said. “Do you think that my mother would be so foolish as to leave such a thing until the last minute? No.” She sighed. “Flemeth prepared my soul for obliteration years ago. I read it in her grimoire. She performed the ritual on my thirteenth birthday. I remember…” Her gaze dropped suddenly to the frozen earth. “Mother told me it was a rite of passage into womanhood,” she murmured. “I did not think to question her.”

 _Cast off,_ thought the Warden. _Raised by those who claimed to be responsible, and yet abandoned. Just like Zevran, and Connor. And me_.

The Witch lifted her head and shook it dismissively. “So you see, it cannot be anyone else,” she said to Loghain. “I am the vessel. Flemeth needs me, or she must begin her journey from the Fade all over again.”

The Mage nodded and looked around at the others. “Ready?” she asked.

“Oh, are the humans through talking at last?” droned Shale from her place next to Sten. “Surely they could find a few more things to quibble about until the sun goes down. Then we could all stop again while they shut their eyes and make strange noises in the dark.”

For answer, Morrigan transformed into a hawk and soared above the trees out of the range of the golem’s curses.

 

* * *

 

Soon, the slanted planes of a high, oversized roof could be seen peering at them between the trees. As they approached the clearing in which Flemeth’s hut stood, the Mage quickly put a hand to either side, just above her hips. The body armor that the Gwaren shield had bought included a belt across the middle similar to Zevran’s, into which its wearer could tuck potions, grenades or whatever she might need in a pinch. The Warden had learned her lesson after being caught flat-footed by Gaxkang; she now carried a brace of lyrium potions at her right hand, health potions at her left.

Any hope they might have had of knocking on the door of Flemeth’s hut and catching her off guard was dashed as soon as they entered the clearing. Morrigan’s mother stood on a small ridge of rock on the west side of her little yard. She carried no staff, her empty hands folded in front of her as she gazed serenely down the path at them.

“She is waiting for us,” said Loghain through his teeth. His expression darkened as they ascended the ridge and stood before Flemeth, who inclined her head solemnly like a great lady receiving an audience. The Mage would not have been surprised to see steam curling from the Warrior’s nostrils. The Witch, however, brightened visibly upon seeing the face that scowled at her over the Mage’s right shoulder.

“Loghain Mac Tir,” said Flemeth, her eyes glinting with pleasure. Her gaze raked him boldly from boots to crown. “The years have not been kind to you, old man. Once I might have taken you as one of my lesser lovers –not to produce a child, naturally; rather, as a morsel with which to cleanse my palate between courses.”

“You never produced a child naturally in your life, old woman,” retorted Mac Tir. “And I consider the years to have been _very_ kind, if I have now become so ugly that I am no longer eligible to become one of your playthings.”

“There are other games to play than love, as you well know,” replied Flemeth with a shrug. “By the by: how goes _your_ new game these days?” She threw a sidelong glance at the Warden. “Or perhaps it is the same old game as before? The pieces have changed, but the moves seem rather familiar…” She chuckled. “Shame about that last battle of yours. But then you, like me, always did prefer the men around you to die young.”

“The women, too, if you’ll recall. Ha,” he answered back. “Pity I was too late in your case.”

“Whereas I, like you, prefer not to die,” said the Witch, laughing. “Unlike you, however, I do prefer to _live_ young, when I can. But you know that, don’t you? For that is why you are here, is it not?” She turned to address the Warden, who had been following the spar of words with her mouth open. “Or rather, that is why _you_ are here,” she continued. “ _He_ is here not so that a young Mage may live, but so that an old Mage may die. A difference lies there that you would do well to appreciate. He is not a man to be swayed from his goal –or to care how many fall in his pursuit of it.”

The Warden closed her mouth at last with a cough. “You… know each other personally, I take it?”

The old woman laughed again. “He thinks that he knows _me_ ,” she answered, “just as you, Warden, believe that you know _him_.” She clucked her teeth. “Give a man the title of ‘hero’ and the most intelligent people will believe it, despite the evidence. If you had been my daughter, I would have taught you the true worth of men’s words and appearances –and to look after your own interests above all.”

Loghain exhaled heavily through his nose at this; Sten was muttering something under his breath.

“I am curious, though,” continued Flemeth, “as to what it is that brings you here, doing Morrigan’s bidding. Has my daughter actually endeared herself that much to you? Sisterly chats and beauty tips by the campfire in the evenings? No,” she chuckled, “obviously not. Then what reason could you have for going out of your way in a time of war to kill an old woman?”

“I need Morrigan,” answered the Mage. “She will not stay with us unless I do this.”

“Ah,” said Flemeth, “so you simply need Morrigan to _believe_ that I am dead. If she requires certain words to hold her allegiance, let her have them. Return to her and say that I am slain.”

The Mage shook her head. “Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid,” she said. “Morrigan would insist on coming here afterwards to loot your house and possessions personally.”

“Meaning my grimoire, of course,” replied the Witch with a nod. “Then let us use her greed to our advantage. Lure her here with the grimoire, let her think that I am dead; then I will possess her body and give you an ally ten times more powerful than she.”

“No,” said the Mage. “I do not trust you.”

“But you trust _her_? You are a bigger fool even than you look.”

“If I cannot trust Morrigan in all things, I can trust her to act against her fears,” said the Warden. “I do not know what you fear, if anything. Therefore I cannot trust you.”

“Hmm,” said the Witch, considering. “Perhaps I underestimated you. But then, you must know that what Morrigan fears most is Flemeth. Take Flemeth away, and what binds her to you? Would you not have the same predicament as you would by helping me? Better to keep Morrigan’s fear alive, and to put her in her place; let her know that you and I are watching her, and that if she fails to follow your commands, you will let me have her without a fight.”

The Warden studied her opponent in silence. Was this Flemeth’s way of showing fear? For all her persistence, it did not truly feel as if the old woman was in any way desperate in begging for her life. Rather it felt like the dealings the Mage had had with any number of merchants in her travels. If the Witch could not come to an agreement with the Grey Warden, then she would simply take her business elsewhere.

Sten interrupted her thoughts with a growl of impatience. “Surely you are not considering a bargain with this _saar hissra_?” he said.

“I am not one to shirk my duty,” said Loghain, “nor will I go back on a promise of service, no matter the circumstances under which it was made. But if you ally yourself with this woman, Commander –against which I advise in the strongest terms possible—I would respectfully request that you send me on to Redcliffe to meet with the troops there in advance of your arrival. I _will not_ —I cannot—”

“The same old game,” broke in Flemeth smoothly. Her glance never wavered from the Mage, though her words were now aimed partly at the Warrior who stood fuming to one side. She shook her head reproachfully. “Respectfully, obediently insisting that those above him do exactly as he tells them. Go on then, Warden: send him away; let him join the armies ahead of you, and then see what awaits you when you arrive to take command.” She laughed. “He will go to his daughter with tales of the Grey Warden’s alliance with an abomination, and whom do you think she will believe? Her father, the stout-hearted Fereldan warrior, or a Mage raised on an island prison with no love for her country, now set free in the Wilds to do as she pleases?” The Witch flashed the Warden a knowing eye. “Never mind that all you have done thus far is what the devout, the feeble and the frightened could not do on their own, no. All the more reason to call you a sorceress, and to persecute you. Flemeth knows.” She nodded wisely. “But by all means, turn your back on your hero, as your king did at Ostagar. Trust him to act on your behalf. Or you could compel him to stay, knowing that I will find him on the road if he chooses to desert again.”

“No,” answered the Mage. “I will not force any of my companions to follow me.” She looked back at her Champion. “He and Morrigan are the only ones who were ever pressed into my service against their will,” she said. “And both he and Morrigan have been free to leave at any time, as have any who travel with me.”

Flemeth chuckled. “But I’m sure that he, like Morrigan, knows what would happen to him if he tried to leave,” she said. “If he slunk back to court like a dog without his keeper. Indeed I am beginning to think that his presence at your heel is not the result of some starry-eyed notion of yours, but of his own desire for another set of coattails to ride –a chance, at long last, to feel like a hero again, instead of a treacherous old bungler who allows everyone close to him to—”

“ENOUGH!”

Startled, the Warden turned around. Loghain, shaking with fury, had drawn his sword and was brandishing it with a snarl. “Give the word, Commander,” he said. “Give it, I beg of you.”

“Your war dog strains at the leash, Commander,” warned Flemeth gleefully. “How long until he breaks it?”

“He will not have a need,” answered the Mage. “Not today.” She raised one hand, preparing the signal.

“I see,” said Flemeth. “Pity; you showed such promise, girl. You have only this one terrible flaw, of allowing the will of others to influence your actions. I could have helped you overcome this. But it seems that you are not to be helped. Now Flemeth will show you the same mercy that she shows to all poor, sick, helpless creatures; she will put you out of your misery. And in doing so, Flemeth will prove herself a greater friend than some who claim to serve you.”

Still smiling, the Witch flung her arms wide; for a split second it looked to the Mage as if she meant to embrace them. Then a shadow leapt up from the heart of Flemeth, a shadow that loomed high above them all, pulling the old woman’s form up and out, the neck stretching skyward, the arms stretching, expanding to form—

“Wings!” bellowed Shale. “Curse it!”

As the form of Flemeth’s shapeshift became unmistakable, the Mage’s first thought was: _Oh, come ON_. Her next was more academic: _But how could she possibly… isn’t a shapeshifter supposed to learn_ _her intended incarnation by_ observing _it? When would Flemeth have had the chance to socialize with High Dragons?_

Despite what her intellect would tell her, the Mage’s eyes left her in no doubt of the creature they now confronted. She imagined that Flemeth’s choice of transformation was based not only on the fearsomeness of the weapons in a High Dragon’s arsenal, but also because Flemeth must reasonably suspect that her enemies would never have encountered such a beast, much less defeated one.

 _Bad luck for her_ , thought the Mage with a grim smile. _The beloved Andraste could have told her differently… if she still had a tongue_.

“ _Vashedan_!” cursed Sten in frustration. He had stowed the sword Yusaris in Bodahn’s cart with their camp things.

As Andraste had done on the mountaintop, the High Dragon Flemeth greeted them with an ear-splitting shriek.

“Shale!” shouted the Mage when she could hear herself. “Stun her, then break her kneecaps!”

“Excellent,” said the golem with a chuckle as the Warden leaped off the ridge to the lower ground of Flemeth’s yard. “For all its annoying qualities, it does know how to show a girl a good time…”

The Mage did not usually encourage Shale to do her stunning trick, because the localized earthquake she generated put her companions out of action as well. In this case, however, the Warden needed time to plan her attack, and Flemeth must be immobilized while she did it. From her place on the lower ground, she would be out of range of the shockwave caused by Shale’s pounding fists. As the earth shook and the golem snickered, the Mage flung her pack off her shoulders and searched frantically through its contents. In preparation for the fight with Andraste, the Warden had brewed as many potent fire-protection potions as she could from her store of ingredients. She had gone up the mountain with seven potions for her party of six; surprisingly, no one had required a second dose before Andraste had fallen. Quickly her fingers found the remaining earthenware flask, still radiating warmth like a small oven; she also located two more, less-powerful flame-resistance potions that they had picked up somewhere in the Deep Roads. She did not need to ask the others whether they might have their own; her Warriors would not stow such things in their gear. Who of the four of them, she thought then, should go without?

She peeked over the ridge. As thorny a question as it might seem in theory, in practice the answer became obvious as soon as her eyes lit on Shale’s glowing red back. The golem (partially because Darkspawn were fond of flames and explosions, and partially because Shale herself showed a predilection for the color red) was adorned with a carapace of crystals that carried a strong protective enchantment against fire damage. It was not as much protection as the Mage’s concoction would give, but more than either of the two lesser potions. Shale, then, would stand on her own.

The golem had gleefully shattered the joints in Flemeth’s front legs and was rumbling around towards the rear. “Mind the tail!” the Warden shouted as the dragon began to stir. She set aside one of the lesser fire-resistance potions for herself. Though not as heavily armored as her companions, the Mage had a higher natural resistance to magic than they did; moreover, if she stayed where she was, she could duck out of the way of a direct blast. But what about the other two?

Another quick glance at the battlefield gave the Mage her answer. Sten was muttering harsh invectives against the _saarebas_ , but his expression as he shook himself and readied the Summer Sword was as stoic as ever. The snarl on Loghain’s face, however, was heavy and furious and would not be dislodged, she believed, until Flemeth lay in pieces before him. He stood directly before the dragon’s lowered head, boots shifting on the damp ground, his gaze locked onto the eyes of his enemy. Flemeth’s jaws gaped at him in a terrible spiked grin; the Mage doubted that her attention could be diverted from the old Warrior even if Sten had brought Yusaris with him. The Qunari was pacing around the dragon’s sides and back; the Mage tossed him the second of the lesser potions with a shout.

“Sten! Wings! Then the legs!” Sten acknowledged his commander with a nod, downed the potion, and set to work, aiming for critical joints and tendons that would most affect the dragon’s mobility.

The Mage glanced back at Flemeth just in time to see the dragon’s neck curl back in the way that she knew preceded a blast of flame. She ducked, hastily uncorking her own potion and tipping it down her throat as the flames came rolling over the ridge and across the field below. She hefted the earthenware flask and peered back over the ridge. Loghain, anticipating the burst of fire as well as his commander, had flung himself under Gaxkang’s shield, sliding forwards feet-first until he was lodged nearly between the dragon’s battered front legs. Flemeth backed up painfully, sweeping her horned head along the ground in an attempt to root out her enemy. The Mage checked the cork on the flask, took aim, and threw it low along the ground. It rolled to a stop a couple of feet to the left of Loghain’s ear.

 _Please,_ she prayed. _Let him notice it_.

Duty’s wings under the shield jerked back; a moment later, the distinctive sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling echoed off the silverite that encased him. A gloved hand snaked out and grasped the potion. Loghain rolled to his feet, yanking the stopper off the flask with his shield hand. Flipping up the visor of his helmet, he flashed the Mage a deadly grin before turning back to his enemy. No longer able to turn on all four legs, Flemeth was trying to skewer or bludgeon Sten and Shale with her great taloned wings and spiked hind legs and tail. From the edge of her vision she saw the Warrior rise; her head snapped round to face him just as the last of the Mage’s potion slid down his gullet. Loghain tossed the empty flask into the rushes with a satisfied gasp, gripped his sword, and beat the pommel twice against the boss of his shield. He raised the Starfang, a bright and bitter spike in the dull, smoke-drenched air of the clearing. The fingers on the pommel curled at Flemeth in invitation. The dragon reared, lifting and spreading her wings as if to blot the world from her enemy’s sight, and came roaring to meet him.

Even hobbled, a High Dragon was a dangerous opponent to face, especially at close range. Loghain was also unable to employ one of his primary weapons, as his shield attacks had almost no effect on the dragon’s heavily armored hide. He was forced to employ a one-handed offense, using the shield almost exclusively to protect himself from the darts of Flemeth’s head and snapping jaws. As the dragon Andraste had done before her, Flemeth seemed to be trying to catch Loghain in her mouth and either crush or shake him to death; Loghain, of course, had anticipated this, and held up the wolf’s-head shield as a wall between swipes and stabs at her chest and neck. The dragon battered her face bloody against that wall, trying to reach him.

Though it obviously caused him no damage, Flemeth still periodically doused Loghain and their side of the clearing in flames. The Mage could not understand why she would do this, until she realized that the fire and smoke made it difficult for him to see. She was trying to blind him so that she could more easily catch him off guard when she tried to bite him. When he could anticipate the blasts, he would duck underneath them, so Flemeth attempted to stun him first by shrieking directly into his face until his ears rang and he became too disoriented to move. To do this, however, she had to put her head within reach of Loghain’s blade and the heavy blows of his shield. It was a battle of action and counteraction, but in this battle the Mage believed the advantage to be the dragon’s.

She knew one minor frost spell –not nearly as powerful as Morrigan’s, but enough to stop the blast of flame if she could catch it just before it issued from the dragon’s mouth. Sten and Shale were mostly blocked from view; she could sense their presences in the Fade, but could not see them. Sten, she knew, was not above calling out to his _kadan_ if he needed healing. If Shale ever felt what others would call ‘hurt’, the golem never admitted it; the Mage was not sure if a healing spell would have any effect on her, anyway. At the moment, the two of them felt to her strained but not seriously injured. This meant that she had some breathing room to time her next frost spell properly. Grimly she recalled that this was Morrigan’s favorite game—

 _and just when had she learned to play_ that?

—and shifted to a spot that gave her a clear view of the base of the dragon’s throat. _The neck itself will move around too much_ , she thought, _but the base remains stable as she readies the spell. If I can freeze that spot just as the blast exits the lungs—_

Flemeth screamed in Loghain’s face, stunning him; she was gathering the fire in her breast and wanted him as defenseless as possible when she released it. The Warrior stirred as soon as the screaming stopped, but Loghain now only had a handful of seconds to gather his thoughts and evade the blast from wherever it came. He shook his head and readied his shield-arm; the dragon reared back and the Mage conjured up a stream of freezing energy, aiming it directly at the spot where the long neck met the torso. Her timing was slightly too late; a short spout of flame did escape to cover Loghain’s head and shoulders, but the wash of fire was cut off abruptly. Flemeth choked; Loghain started in surprise, laughed, and charged in with the Starfang, looking for the finishing blow that Sten had performed on Andraste.

Backing away, the dragon raised herself almost entirely off the ground, beating her wings in front of her in an attempt to repel the attack. But Sten had managed to nearly sever one wing from its joint so that it flopped uselessly, pulling her down on that side and tangling the Qunari and his sword in the great pinions like a man trapped under a tent that had collapsed. Flemeth roared in pain and frustration, thrashing her tail and stamping her great hind legs so that the earth shook. Sten was tossed to the ground and viciously yanked about; the Mage could not see him but could feel his injuries through the Fade and hear his muffled voice crying out to his commander for aid. She could not pin his physical form as a focus for a healing spell, and was reluctant to cast one for fear of accidentally healing Flemeth instead. Sparing a glance at Loghain –he was darting between the flailing front legs and attempting to slash the softer underbelly—the Mage shut her eyes and cast her consciousness into the Fade, searching for her staunch lieutenant. Here, all she might do was heal his spirit and revive his energy, but she hoped it would give him the strength to withstand his physical hurts a bit longer.

She found him on one of the Fade’s endless twisting paths, nearly as large as a golem, shielding his _kadan_ from a screeching raptor whose wings conjured whirlwinds of fire. He was bowed, crumpling even as he cursed his enemy; she healed his spirit’s wounds and he sprang up, bellowing defiance in his own language. It was all the Warden could do for him. Clasping her staff, she yanked herself quickly back to the waking world and opened her eyes to see a wall of flame surging towards her. The Mage ducked behind the ridge once again, her heart hammering in her chest. Had Loghain managed to avoid the blinding smoke and fire once again? As soon as she could, she scrambled up and peered over the ridge.

The spot on the ground where Loghain had stood was empty. But Flemeth had something in her mouth.

“No!” She tried to heal him, but once again could not focus as the dragon’s head tossed and shook him mercilessly. The Warden yelled at Shale to bash the beast in the ribs, throw rocks at her head, anything to get her to drop her prey. Hearing this, Flemeth turned and caught the Mage’s stricken expression in one wickedly gleaming eye. The dragon’s grin hitched up even further; still staring at the Mage, she tilted her head to one side and bore down, her jaws grinding together like a man wrestling a particularly stubborn piece of meat off the bone. Loghain’s breath left his body with the horrible sound of an old man crying out from a dream of death. At last satisfied, the dragon released him; he tumbled from her jaws and lay motionless on the ground.

Flemeth now turned on Shale, who was still intent on breaking one or both of the dragon’s hind legs. Sten remained trapped in the membrane of the dragon’s wing, hindering her movements; with a jerk, she ripped away the last of the muscle and tendons joining the wing to her body, knocking the Qunari aside with a sweep of her tail. He lay unresponsive, alive but too weak to fight back; the Mage again tried to heal him but was blocked by the dragon and by Shale, who flung curses and blows and anything she could lift from the ground at her adversary. Flemeth, in her turn, doused the golem repeatedly with flames that the Mage could not block, as the dragon’s back was to her and she dared not come forth from behind her protective ridge –both her sword and her shield were in the back of Bodahn’s cart, trundling towards the clearing by the longer road. Shale’s crystals were designed to provide good protection against periodic fire damage, but not to withstand a relentless series of direct hits from a High Dragon. Flemeth battered her with kicks and lashings of her tail, and then bathed the golem in torrents of flame. The Mage heard more than one of the crystals explode in the heat. Shale’s body began to glow red as molten lava; smoke issued from her joints as she aimed one last punch at the dragon’s face, and fell.

“Pigeon… Curse it…”

They were all down. The Mage took a deep breath and willed herself not to panic. All of her companions were down, and she was alone in this clearing with a High Dragon. But from each of them, the Mage could feel a faint thread of life still stirring. They needed more healing than she could give them, but they might still live if she could get Morrigan to come down from the skies.

 _Only one way to do that_ , she thought as Flemeth turned her blackened gaze on the Warden.

Flemeth was in a bad way. With only one wing, she could not fly; her front legs were shattered and Shale had caused enough damage to one of her hind legs as to make walking virtually impossible. From her place behind the ridge, the Mage was in no danger of a physical attack and could easily duck out of the way of a blast of fire, if she could not freeze it in time. For her part, the Mage aimed shards of lightning and arcane bolts at the dragon’s head and the vulnerable spots on her body where sword or stone had broken the flesh. Gradually, she felt the Witch’s life force slipping away.

 _Why doesn’t she shift back?_ she thought. _Surely if she was in human form, she’d have more than fire spells at her disposal_.

 _Because if she shifts back, she’ll be an old woman with at least three broken limbs, that’s why. Also, I’m not sure she’s got all that much mana left_.

The dragon was panting in pain and exhaustion; her gaze swept over the Mage as she stood regarding her enemy.

 _She wonders why I’ve stopped_ , thought the Warden. _I’ll bet she thinks I’m out of mana too_.

Still glaring into the eyes of the dragon, the Mage slowly reached for her belt and pulled out one of the flasks by her right side. She pulled the stopper and held the flask up for Flemeth to see and smell, and then tipped the lyrium potion down her throat. The dragon screamed, but it was a sound of more than frustration or defiance. There was despair and loss in it as well. The Mage set her jaw and summoned another round of lightning bolts, and at last the light went out of Flemeth’s eyes. Her lungs expelled the last spark of life with a cough; the body swayed and collapsed, and the head with its now-vacant grin thudded to the ground.

The Mage held her breath. Morrigan would not come until she was sure the demon had been sent back to the Fade –but how would she know? The Warden scanned the skies as the air cleared. Soon she realized that more than just the smoke of battle was dissipating; a heaviness in the air that the Mage had always felt in Flemeth’s presence as an oppressive hum from the Fade, dampening her own senses, was lifting. She blinked, and took a deep breath. The air was bleak and sodden with the chill of a marsh in winter, but it was clear. The yard was silent.

Not long afterwards, the silence was shattered by the call of a hawk. The Mage ran up onto the top of the ridge and waved. The hawk soared into view; from below she looked like a dark acolyte, robed in black and white with blood-drenched limbs. She hovered over the scene while the Mage waved more frantically, pointing to the three still figures on the ground. At last, Morrigan folded her wings and dropped, resuming her human form just as she alit near the dragon’s corpse. The Mage still pointed wordlessly, not trusting herself to speak. The Witch nodded and began the incantation that would revive the fallen, but not the dead.

Unable to wait, the Warden ran to Loghain’s side. His helmet had stayed on his head while he was being shaken, but the visor had flipped open. His face looked sunken and pallid, with deep bruises under the eyes. His lips were pulled back in a grimace, the pink tip of his tongue protruding slightly from between his teeth. The Mage felt an irrational impulse to push the tongue back. It seemed the decent thing to do, like closing a dead man’s eyes, or modestly arranging the skirts of a fallen woman. Instead she held her closed fists at her sides and waited.

She had wondered if the Revival spell would have any effect on Shale; the Mage was still a little confused as to where Shale’s earthly nature ended and her spirit began. The golem, however, was the first to regain consciousness. “Strange,” she wheezed as she hoisted herself to her feet. “I must have fallen asleep. I dreamed that an enormous talking pigeon killed me with its awful breath. Preposterous.” She began patting her back and shoulders mournfully, lamenting her lost crystals as she found them.

Sten was next: “ _Parshaara_!” he yelled suddenly, as if waking from his own dream in which he still fought the High Dragon. He thrashed against the last tattered remnants of Flemeth’s wing. “Get off of me, _bas saarebas_! Now you will die!”

“Sten!” the Mage called out to him. “It’s all right, it’s over; Flemeth is dead. You did well.” But she remained with clenched fists by Loghain’s side and did not look up, willing her fellow Warden to stir, to open his eyes, even to curse her for bringing him on this ridiculous errand. _He’s still alive_ , she thought, _I can feel it. But then why doesn’t he wake? Was I too long in killing Flemeth; has he gone too far along the path to the Maker’s side that he can no longer turn back?_

“Fight, blast you,” she whispered fiercely to him. “You’re still alive; now _fight_.”

His shoulders jerked; his chest heaved once, twice, and then he coughed so violently that the visor of his helmet slammed shut. He raised himself to a sitting position and flung the helmet off, revealing an ashen face, a reeking mass of sweat-soaked hair and a glare like two poisoned daggers aimed directly at the Witch. “ _You_...” he snarled as he struggled to his feet, but he was interrupted by a blaze of white and red as the Grey Warden bore down on Morrigan in a rage, leaving Loghain stunned in her wake.

“What in the name of Maferath’s blue balls was _that_?” she shouted.

“Oh—right—carry on…” muttered Loghain, biting his lip and gazing off into the trees. Morrigan lifted her eyebrows but said nothing.

“You –you bloody wad of Deepstalker spittle!” yelled the Mage, shaking with fury. Sten frowned; Mac Tir covered his mouth and coughed as solemnly as he could into his hand. The Warden took no notice. “Do you not think,” she railed, “it might have been the _slightest_ bit helpful for you to warn us that your _mother_ might just shapeshift into a _High sodding Dragon_?”

The Witch folded her arms and looked supremely unconcerned. “You came out of it all right,” she answered with a shrug. “‘Tis not my fault if the others were unprepared.”

“They nearly died, doing _you_ a favor!”

“They were not doing me a favor,” said Morrigan, “but simply following _your_ orders. I am under no obligation to them; indeed, if they are to be angry, ‘tis at you, for engaging them in a task that was plainly too great a challenge for them.”

“And if your mother had killed us, what would you do then? Slay the Archdemon all by yourselves? Even Flemeth did not have the arrogance to believe that possible.”

“My mother was old, and had lost both the vigor and the flexibility of her youth along with her beauty. She had grown too comfortable here in her marsh hut. I, on the other hand, am young and adventurous. I need not stay and wait for the Blight to overtake me. I can fly beyond its reaches, if I must –or endure with the wild creatures until it passes.”

“And just how much enjoyment could you get from a Blighted land?” asked the Mage. “A land with no living woods to roam, no people to watch, no shops, no golden mirrors? No men to tease or take advantage of, and only tainted creatures and Darkspawn for company? But then what would you do? Would you and Flemeth march to Redcliffe and offer yourselves to lead the armies in our stead? Or would you trust the Arl to do the errand for you?”

“I would ransom my services, as both you and my mother lacked the wit or the will to do,” answered Morrigan. “Your Arl, I imagine, would pay much gold to the hero who saves his pretty wife from the big bad horde. _You_ are the one who persists in wasting your talents doing _favors_ for people who are in no position to repay you. If I took advantage of your weakness, whose fault is that?”

The Warden was seething. “You… ungrateful… self-centered little _piglet_ ,” she said. “You think that your meanness makes you superior to the rest of us? You take pride in the fact that a dust-hearted block of stone has a greater sense of loyalty and duty than you do? But you are right: if they did anyone a favor today, it was me, not you. Not one of them would have lifted a finger to help you today, if _I_ had not ordered them. Think of that, the next time you find yourself in need.”

Morrigan’s teeth flashed white in the shadow of her mother’s corpse. “May I remind you, Warden,” she said, “that I now have _everything_ I need… and now that my mother is dead, the only obstacle that might keep me from doing whatever I _want_ … is you.”

Behind her, the Mage heard two swords and a shield being hefted and readied, and the grinding noise of a golem making a fist. Morrigan’s glance flickered past the Warden from one spot to the other. Sten growled. The pacing, rocking beat of Loghain’s boots heralded a charge that waited only for his commander’s signal. She did nothing but gaze coldly into Morrigan’s eyes.

The Witch gave a sudden, scornful laugh. “ _Such_ devotion,” she said. “Or perhaps they simply recognize that you would never defeat me on your own. You could not hope to best me in magic, little teacher’s pet –nor could any Circle cow. But do not trouble yourselves,” she added, waving a dismissive hand at them and stepping past the indignant Qunari to the door of Flemeth’s hut. “I remain at your command until this Blight is over. My _dear_ mother would have wanted it that way.”

As she reached the door and opened it, she turned back. “Do not count on always having friends around to save you,” she said to the Warden. “Such things never last.” The door shut.

The Mage looked at Sten, frowning, and then at the dragon. Suddenly she ran down the path to the hut and pounded on the door until Morrigan opened it and poked her head out.

“When you shapeshift,” asked the Mage, “you _are_ that animal physiologically, are you not? Your soul stays your own, of course; but your body has _all_ the properties of its new form, just as your mind does?”

“’Tis how I was taught,” answered Morrigan with a shrug, “though I can’t say I ever—”

The Mage nodded and turned back to Sten. “Drain her,” she ordered, pointing her chin at Flemeth’s corpse. “Every drop. Get the others to help, when they arrive. Use whatever vessels you can find in this hut. I’m sure,” she said with a sickly grin at Morrigan, “her dear _daughter_ will be happy to help.”

Sten gave a satisfied grunt and advanced on the carcass with his sword raised. Shale, curious, followed to offer assistance, pausing at Sten’s direction to gather the empty flasks that had been cast aside during the battle. As the Mage cast healing spells on himself and the Qunari, Loghain looked concernedly at the sky. “We ought to be getting on to our next errand soon,” he said to her. “Your scouts should have reported back by now.”

“Perhaps they ran into trouble,” said the Warden.

Morrigan’s head and shoulders appeared in the open doorway of the hut’s upper story, into which she was letting some fresh air. “They are safe,” she called down to the two Wardens. “My mother had summoned protective charms around this house that repelled the Darkspawn. Your scouts were inside the perimeter when I left them.”

The Mage blinked. “Thank you,” she said. Morrigan shrugged and moved away.

“Of course, we now have a crimp in our plans,” she said to Loghain. “Or several crimps, depending on how many dents this dragon managed to put in your armor –and in you.”

“Strangely enough, I don’t think there are any,” he answered. “I’ve had a look, and my armor looks nothing like it did after the beloved Andraste got a hold of it. Check the back,” he suggested.

The Mage obeyed, and saw nothing worse than a minor dimple or depression in a handful of places. Peering more closely, however, she did detect a new vibration off the armor that she had never noticed before.

“Some enchantment’s been added to this,” she said at last.

“What?” asked Loghain, peering over his shoulder at her.

“It’s true,” she said. “It had some magical enhancements before, but there’s a new one here –a rather strong increase in defense, it turns out.”

“Huh. I expect Wade must have done it.”

The Mage smiled. “You must remember to thank him,” she said sweetly, “for taking such special care of you.”

“Someone has to, it seems, if you insist upon feeding me to the wild beasts.”

She looked skeptical. “Still, I don’t like the idea of sending you straight to Ostagar without—”

“I am well enough,” said Loghain. “We will stop the night near the gates; a few hours’ rest will be all I need.”

The Warden shook her head. “‘Well enough’ is not good enough,” she said. “I need to be sure that you are in top condition to fight –and run—if necessary. Morrigan’s mother healed me; I’m sure that if we looked inside her hut, we could find something—”

“I will put nothing that old woman has brewed into my body.”

“Do you wish to join me on this mission?” asked the Mage. “Or shall I leave you here for another forced day of convalescence? There is a spare bed in Flemeth’s hut; Morrigan could tuck you in…”

Loghain groaned. “Oh, by Gaxkang’s rancid innards,” he said, “ _fine_. As you command, Grey Warden, I shall ascend into the Witch’s lair and beg a tonic –if for no other purpose than to cure this nascent headache.”

The Mage accompanied him back to the door of Flemeth’s hut, composed a calm and pleasant face, and knocked again –more politely this time. Morrigan raised a supercilious eyebrow at Loghain when the Warden explained what they wanted, but stepped back from the doorway after a moment, leaving it open for them to follow her.

She opened a cupboard and extracted a large bottle of emerald-colored glass that contained a thick, syrupy liquid. Loghain eyed it suspiciously.

Morrigan rolled her eyes at him. “Do you suspect ‘tis poison?” she snapped. “Or that it will turn you into a toad, as Alistair once feared?” She plunked the bottle onto the plain wooden countertop and moved away to resume her inventory of Flemeth’s possessions. “Witches get hurt, and ill, and they require healing just the same as anyone,” she said. “You can’t believe that _nothing_ my mother kept in her hut was without some sinister purpose.”

Loghain folded his arms as he watched her. “All right, then,” he said stubbornly. “I want to see you drink it first.”

Morrigan stopped what she was doing and looked shiftily at the Wardens. “I am not injured,” she protested.

“You see?” said Mac Tir to his commander. “She won’t take it.”

The Mage shut her eyes and prayed to the Maker for patience. She appealed to Morrigan. “If it’s harmless,” she said, “why not humor him?”

The Witch sputtered feebly, and then sighed. “All right; it tastes horrible! Mother used to force me to take it when I was a child and came down with fevers and other ailments.” She made the disgusted face of every child when confronted with medicine. “The worst was when I was a teenager, though,” she continued. “I had shapeshifted into a deer and some fool hunters shot me full of arrows. Flemeth had me in bed and swallowing that stuff every six hours for four days.”

The Mage snickered. She opened the bottle and sniffed curiously at its contents.

“This smells familiar.”

“It ought to,” said Morrigan grimly. “It was given to you and that superstitious oaf after Mother rescued you both from the Tower.”

The Mage frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were unconscious,” answered the Witch with some bitterness. “Guess who had to administer it to you.”

The Warden looked bashful. “Thanks?”

Morrigan snorted. “At least _you_ kept yours down.”

The Mage winced. “Ew.”

“Indeed. You have not truly lived until a naked Templar vomits on you.”

Reluctantly, the Mage smiled. No one said anything for a long moment as they all stared at the bottle.

“Oh, all right,” said Morrigan at last. “Give it here.”

The Mage handed over the bottle; the Witch took it and held it for a moment, gazing into its emerald depths. She raised it nearly to her lips and then stopped, a peculiar frown clouding her features. Then she turned abruptly on her heel, stalked over to the kitchen counter and rummaged through one of the drawers underneath, eventually fishing out a large spoon with a carved handle. She poured a dose of Flemeth’s medicine carefully into the spoon and positioned it near her lips with the handle pointing away, as though it was held there for her by an invisible mother. She closed her mouth around the spoon and swallowed.

 _Good girl_ , thought the Mage sadly, and looked away.

After nothing resulted from ingesting the liquid other than a series of disgusted faces, the Mage turned to Loghain expectantly.

“Go on, then,” she prompted him.

With a deep sigh, Loghain took the bottle and the spoon from Flemeth’s daughter. He swallowed his own dose and grimaced; only a warning look from the Mage prevented him from spitting it out. The three of them waited in silence as the tonic took its effect.

“I didn’t know about the dragon,” said Morrigan suddenly. “Not for certain, anyway. At least, I remember now that Mother _had_ mentioned it, years ago” –Loghain glared at this—“but you know Flemeth: she speaks mostly in riddles and lies. You only know if what she says is true when it actually happens.” She shrugged. “She never actually shifted into a High Dragon, so I –I forgot.”

The Mage covered her eyes and rubbed wearily at her temples. “I suppose,” she said, “that it wouldn’t have been to your advantage if you _had_ known, and _not_ warned us.”

“Yes, well, far be it from me to introduce logic into the conversation when we were having _so_ much fun spitting at one another like cats.”

The Mage picked up the bottle from where Loghain had put it back on the counter. She sniffed at it again, wrinkled her nose, and replaced the stopper firmly.

“Would you be able to make any more of this?” she asked.

Morrigan blinked in surprise, and then shrugged. “If Flemeth has stocked all of the necessary ingredients, yes. Some of them are rather rare, however.”

The Mage nodded. “If she has,” she said, “I would appreciate it if you could brew as much of this as possible before our party returns from Ostagar. Regardless of its flavor, this stuff is still better than anything we currently carry for serious injuries.”

“It would require me to divert available vessels from your great mission to drain my mother’s corpse,” said Morrigan blandly.

The Warden nodded again. “It will be worth it.”

She thanked the Witch again for Loghain’s cure and the two Wardens prepared to leave. The Mage discovered a crate of empty flasks in a corner of the kitchen and gathered it up. Loghain opened the front door ahead of her and was immediately struck in the midsection by something large and brown. It barked.

“Hello, Alpha,” he said to it.

“Get that mangy dog out of my house!”

The Wardens herded Alpha back up the path and into the yard. The remainder of the scouting party was trudging into the clearing; the tall poles of Bodahn’s cart could be seen tilting to left and right as it made its uncertain way towards them along the broken end of the Imperial Highway. Alpha bounced around the corpse of the High Dragon, barking excitedly.

“Yes,” Loghain said to him, “you missed a thrilling battle –of which I’m rather glad, all things considered. You might have been hurt quite badly.”

Alpha barked in protest.

“Oh, I was hurt, too –we all were, except for the Witch and young Dragonslayer over there. She saved us, or I would have been chewed up and swallowed like one of your snacks.”

The Mage smiled and gave the grateful Mabari a pat after relinquishing her crate of flasks to Shale. “It is not my fault, Dragon Crunch, that the poor old things find you so tasty,” she said.

Oghren was next to enter the clearing. He had opened his mouth to hail them, but whatever greeting he had prepared was stuck in his throat as he caught sight of the great horned carcass.

“Jumpin’ nuglets!” he exclaimed. “What the –I thought you said it was just that skinny broad’s mother!”

“It was,” replied the Mage. “I mean, she is…” She gave up and waved an arm in Flemeth’s direction. “Sten will explain,” she said.

“Uh,” said Oghren, catching sight of the Qunari at his task. “More blood, eh? Warden, I’m startin’ to think you got a real serious problem…” He trudged off muttering to himself.

Zevran and Leliana came up together and stood before the Wardens to deliver their report. Ostagar, they said, was a wasteland. They had stuck to the campsite and its outlying area, but they had not seen one Genlock grunt, not one tainted beast, only crows (“And not the interesting kind, either,” added Zevran). By the looks of things, they said, the bulk of the horde must all have gone back the way it had come, rejoining the Archdemon in the Dead Trenches. However, it appeared as though the Darkspawn had meant to keep the fortress guarded by a relatively small number, as they had blocked most of the exits.

“They are still holding the place for something, then,” said Loghain. “Possibly the eventual point of exit for the horde’s march on Redcliffe?”

“If so,” said Zevran, “it will not march any time soon, by the signs.” Leliana nodded in agreement but said nothing; a chill had settled on her countenance and she looked distractedly at the ground. “I do not presume to say that Ostagar is completely deserted,” continued Zevran. “In fact, I would swear that it is not. But I have been involved in wars before. There is an atmosphere in a camp when an army is just about to move. I did not feel it there.”

The Warden thanked them and sent them off to see Morrigan about getting some blankets and a fire. “This is good news,” she said to Loghain when they had gone. “It seems that we need not send a large party into Ostagar after all.”

Loghain looked at her skeptically. “And just how many had you planned to send?”

“Well,” said the Mage, “somewhere between the lot of us and none at all, depending on the scouts’ report and the state of our health after dealing with Flemeth. If I could, I had wanted to avoid forcing any of the scouting party to turn around and go back to Ostagar straightaway…”

Alpha, who had stuck his head in between the Wardens, barked.

The Mage sighed and looked around the clearing with her chin in her hand. “However,” she continued, “Sten and Shale should not be asked to go, either –and nor should you, really, except that you know precisely where Cailan’s man hid his key and I don’t. So I’m stuck with you, it seems.” Loghain smiled ruefully.

“So, just the two of us, then?” he asked.

Alpha barked, a little more loudly this time.

“Unless you fancy asking Morrigan,” answered the Mage. “She is the only one of the lot of us besides me who is both rested and unhurt.”

Mac Tir curled his lip.

“I don’t intend for this to be a full-on attempt to recapture the fortress or anything,” continued the Warden. “As far as I’m concerned, our main objective is to dig up that key, unlock Cailan’s chest, remove those papers, and get out.”

“Maric’s sword—”

“—is in the chest as well, according to you. As for the rest of it… well, I know what we told that old soldier; but honestly, I’m not all that fussed about retrieving either a suit of armor or a set of bones that has already been duly mourned _in absentia_ by his widow and his people. If either of them present themselves, of course we’ll do as we said; but otherwise—”

“Warden,” said Loghain, “I could not agree more with either your sentiments or your plan, except for one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Don’t assume that just because you _plan_ for only certain things to happen, that only those things will happen. You should know by now” –he waved an arm in the direction of the dead dragon—“how seldom that turns out to be the case.”

“So how do I plan for what I can’t see coming?”

“You can’t,” answered Loghain with a smile. “The best that you can do is to leave yourself another option.”

“So, General,” she asked him. “Whom else would you bring on this mission, under these circumstances?”

Alpha broke into a frenzy of barks, bouncing between the two Wardens and butting them in the ribs. Loghain looked at him and laughed.

“I believe that someone has already volunteered,” he said fondly.

The Mabari stretched his forelegs on the ground in what Leliana called his ‘play bow’, his rump and stubby tail wriggling high in the air. The Mage nodded.

“Thank you, Alpha, we shall be honored,” she said. Alpha grinned.

“One more,” said Loghain.

“I’m sorry?”

“Four is a good number for a small party,” he told her. “You have done well with four. I see no need to break from a practice that has proven effective. Bring one of the Rogues; they have travelled lightly and are unhurt.”

“They are freezing,” said the Mage, “and with more than just the cold. Ostagar and the woods around it may be deserted, but they are blighted. You know what effect that can have on those not inured to it by the taint.”

“This is war, Commander,” said Loghain. “A little fatigue should not keep those who fight from doing what is necessary.”

“And if I thought it necessary for one of them to come with us, I would ask one of them to go. But I do not, and they shall stay here.”

He pressed his lips together and sighed heavily, but did not press the matter.

Bodahn and his apprentice arrived, checked at the sight of the dead dragon and the growing collection of blood, and set up their cart under a tree at the opposite end of the yard. Sandal knocked down the slatted side so that it rested on its hinge, forming a display area for their goods; his guardian shoved a block of wood against the roll of each of the great stone wheels, and they were in business.

The Mage made sure that the Dwarf had plenty of empty flasks for sale, setting a half-dozen aside for Morrigan’s use. She then hoisted herself into the back of the cart and located her sword and shield from amongst the goods that Bodahn allowed her company to store there. Loghain, upon seeing her emerge with the shield on her arm, raised an eyebrow.

“Another option,” she explained with a shrug.

“Huh,” said Loghain.

She slung the shield at her back along with the Spellweaver. Meanwhile, Loghain had made his way to the display area and was examining a crossbow with a critical eye. Both of the Mage’s eyebrows went up. “You?” she asked him.

“I didn’t exactly grow up in sword-and-shield circles, Warden,” he answered gruffly. “And a hunter in the forest generally has more success with arrows than with steel.”

“Poachers do too, I imagine,” said the Mage with a smile.

One edge of his mouth sliced upwards. “Yes,” he said, “though _my_ poaching instrument of choice was the longbow. This, however, is more practical for our needs.” He turned the weapon on its end and ran his hand over the lath, frowning. “Unfortunately, crossbows also tend to be a bit more expensive,” he added. At this, the Mage let out a gasp.

“Just a minute,” she said to him, holding up one hand and returning to the back of the cart, where she hauled herself up once more and disappeared under the canopy. She emerged a moment later brushing the dust from another crossbow. “This one’s ours already,” she said, holding it out to Loghain. “No charge –if it’s any good, of course.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. The stock of the weapon was of a blond wood elaborately carved, but the lath was dark and thick, curved like the horns of a charging beast. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Soldier’s Peak,” said the Mage.

“Some Dryden I have yet to meet is a bowsmith?”

She chuckled. “No,” she replied. “We, er –acquired it in the usual way.”

“And you didn’t sell it?” he asked, surprised. “It’s obvious that none of you have used it, though it’s kept remarkably well in spite of your neglect.”

“Alistair meant to learn,” said the Mage. “He seemed to think it was his duty, or something. Taking the baton from his fallen Warden comrades, and all that. See: griffons.” She pointed to the design carved into the stock. “He just never found the time to practice.”

“Huh, said Loghain with a snort. He slung the crossbow along his back next to the Starfang. “I feel more glorious already,” he said.

They piled blankets, food and camping gear onto a sled that the company had used in the past to haul loot from places like the Brecilian Forest and the Deep Roads. The sled had belts of leather nailed into its sides that they used to strap the gear in place in case the trail became uneven. Their plan was to walk that night as far as the campsite in the Korcari Wilds that the Mage, Daveth, and Jory had found while gathering Darkspawn blood for their Joining. They would rest there, and enter Ostagar at dawn. At last, they were ready to leave; the Mage called to Sten and left him in charge with Shale as a witness. Oghren had already started a fire and was burning the dried marsh grass and the giant, frost-stiffened cattails. He offered Loghain a farewell snort of ale, which his fellow berseker accepted.

A moment later Zevran, wrapped in a blanket and carrying a mug of something steaming, slipped through the doorway to Flemeth's upper rooms and onto the balcony. There he leaned over the slatted railing to watch his companions from the vantage of height, unobserved. Below, Sten and Oghren bickered over whose turn it was to cook that evening's meat, if there was any in the swamp for Leliana to shoot. The Bard, her own mug in hand, helped the golem to equip a new set of crystals –purple ones, this time. And side by side, already gone along the road, were the Wardens: Loghain with his slightly hunched and determined gait, like a war hound on the scent; the Mage sleek as bone in her new armor, keeping stride with her Champion and adjusting her shield somewhat awkwardly against her back. In her other hand she held the old Warrior's map; as they reached the curve in the lane that led to the Imperial Highway, she checked, studied the sky and the forest for a moment, and then pointed in the opposite direction, southeast between the trees, towards higher ground. Her dark companion nodded and followed. The last of the day's light glinted off the griffon's wings that adorned the helmet he held under one arm; the flames embedded in his starmetal sword seemed to flare up and hail the setting sun. Alpha bounced around his humans with eager good cheer, urging them on. The three figures dwindled into the distance, heading for a gap in the undergrowth from which a chilled and creeping mist blurred sight and perception like fog on a mirror. Zevran shivered and retreated back inside, shutting the door behind him. The mist absorbed the Wardens and shrouded them from sight. Night would soon be falling over Ostagar.

 

**Translations from the Qunari:**

**_Saarebas_** **–** “Dangerous thing”. ****

 ** _Bas saarebas –_** Literally, “thing dangerous thing”. Practically, it refers to any Mage who is not of the Qun. ****

 ** _Saar hissra_** **–** “Dangerous illusion”.

 

* And in case anyone cares, the type of hawk I have Morrigan transforming into is the Harris hawk, which has a distinctive color scheme I think she'd find appealing.

* * *

Illustration by **ShiningMoon**. Click on the pic to visit its deviantArt page and leave cookies and feedback and stuff.

  
[ ](http://shiningmoon.deviantart.com/#/d4uh20v)


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